A Bright World
by bayre
Summary: Blow out the candles and cut your cake, happy birthday sang the wraiths to Dean. The Trickster has a shiny new toy: Sam Winchester. Next in the A War With No Front Series, follows after Colt & Winchester. This story is complete, updates every day or two.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the next in the_ A War With No Front Series _and picks up where_ Colt & Winchester _left off. Many thanks to my awesome betas, Vanessa, Cookie6 and Deej1957! Links to the previous stories can be found on my profile and Sojourner84's profile pages._

_

* * *

__Dean Winchester: As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you._

_Sam Winchester: People don't just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them._

* * *

It was old, an _antique_, ancient even. There was rust and the paint was nothing but a ghost of its former self. It needed work. Lots and _lots_ of work before it would look like it once had. There would be plenty of parts needing replacement. Now it was nothing more than an old, beat up piece of metal.

It was perfect.

"It's older than you," Sam observed.

Even Bobby taking a swing at his head didn't dim Sam's smile. Ducking away easily made the smile even bigger.

"Ya know, boy, I should whup your ass for that." Bobby was making a real effort to be gruff.

Sam saw right through it. "Uh huh."

"Yeah, well, 'cause I don't think I've ever seen you smile so much in your entire _life_, I'll let it ride for now."

"This is really it?" Sam paced around it. Reaching out with one hand, he was just a few inches short of touching when Bobby's fingers around his wrist pulled him away.

"Sam, you get tetanus and Dean'll chop my head off. Him I can't whup."

Rolling his eyes, Sam snickered. "He's gonna _love_ this. He will love it, right?"

"Don't hear you calling him old."

"I like my head where it is." Sam turned and looked at Bobby.

Bobby stood looking back. Finally he shook his head and sighed. "You really need me to tell you your brother is going to like this?" Bobby waved one hand at it.

Sam pulled his lower lip between his teeth and chewed at it, nodding. He felt all of five, not twenty-five. His bangs took the opportunity to flop into his eyes, now he definitely felt five. He brushed them away impatiently.

Shaking his head, Bobby heaved another sigh. "Yes, Sam. Dean is going to love this. You could give him a dirty rag and he'd love it because it came from you."

Sam felt the flush working across his cheeks but continued anyway. "I can pay you," he said softly. This time he didn't have a prayer of getting out of the way of Bobby's hand smacking the back of his head.

"Boy, are you _trying_ to piss me off?!"

"N-no." Sam sidestepped away from the second swing. He knew his face was completely red now.

"What do you mean, _pay me_? You're gonna need that cash to get this rust-bucket fixed up; those parts and paint won't come cheap you know."

"Yes, sir."

Bobby snorted and made a big show of taking his hat off and putting it back on again. "Twice in twenty-five years you ask me for a gift for Dean, and you want to pay me. I should just keep this car myself for that."

Sam's stomach dropped through his shoes. "I'm sorry. Bobby, I didn't mean—"

"Sam, shut up." Bobby glared at him and cracked a huge grin. "I can't think of anyone who should have the Colt brothers' car more than you and Dean."

His face actually hurt from the smile it broke into of its own accord. "So, you think Dean can fix her, get her to run?" He paused, looking from Bobby to the '37 Chevy and back again. "Back up, I've never asked you for help getting Dean a gift before."

Bobby was moving around the car, Sam sprinted after him. Fingertips brushing Bobby's sleeve, he pulled up short when Bobby stopped and turned to face him. "Oh?"

Sam cocked his head to one side. His mind raced trying to figure out what the heck Bobby was talking about. He had the feeling he was missing something important here.

Bobby scratched at the collar of his shirt. "Last I saw, he's still wearing it around his neck."

Sam opened his mouth, closed it again. He scanned the salvage yard for a few seconds before coming back to look at Bobby. "You didn't…that wasn't…you never said anything to either of them."

"No." Bobby shook his head. Shrugging a bit, he went on, "No reason to. Honestly, it wasn't like I didn't expect it anyway."

"Really?"

Bobby chuckled. "You kidding me? Sam, from the first time I met your daddy and he brought you boys here, I could see you were Dean's kid. You always were. You were maybe three—four—something like that and you boys and your daddy would be here. Your daddy would tell you to do something, and you'd turn around and look at Dean to see if it was okay."

"I would?" Sam asked softly, feeling the flush moving back into his cheeks again.

"Oh, yeah. So when you asked me for help finding your daddy a Christmas gift, I always sort of wondered if you really meant your brother. I wasn't a bit surprised when next I saw Dean he was wearing that amulet. It was fitting, I thought." Bobby paused for a minute, taking a look around the salvage yard. "C'mon, let's take the scenic route."

Sam followed obediently, waiting for Bobby to continue.

Another minute or two went by before he said more. "You know much about that amulet, Sam?"

"No, sir, nothing but what you told me, that it would keep whoever wore it safe."

"Lemme tell you a bit more. According to the legend, it protects against possessions, but not just the physical act. It protects the soul from possession, keeps it safe when it's in danger." Bobby leveled such a hard gaze at Sam it made him want to squirm.

"Keeps…the soul…safe." Bobby repeated the words, pronouncing each one slowly. "It only works however, when the wearer gets it from the most important person in his or her life, the person the wearer loves more than themselves. The other side of that is the giver has to love whoever receives it more than themselves. So, in a way, I never once expected it to go to John. The legends also say the amulet has a way of finding its way to where it needs to be, where it'll do the most good." Bobby stopped, laid one hand on Sam's arm, and turned him so Bobby could look straight at him. "I thought you knew all about that amulet, that you would have figured it out after Dean…after the Hellhounds got him?"

"I—" His voice cracked and faltered. He shook his head. "I didn't do…I don't know what I did, other than I didn't let go."

"Hmmm." Bobby scratched at his chin and gave Sam a look that read he wasn't too sure he completely believed that Sam didn't know what he'd done, if anything, or how exactly Dean had gotten back from Hell.

Sam had a theory that somehow the amulet formed some sort of bridge between them, safety for Dean's soul and a means for Sam to hang on tight enough Dean could find a way back. It was only a theory and if Dean remembered anything of his time in Hell, or how he'd gotten back, he wasn't talking.

"You should give it some thought, Sam. While you're at it, give some thought as to why when Dean had the chance to make a deal to bring your father back, he refused. Yet with you, it was never a question." Bobby patted his shoulder, started walking again. "You coming back to the house to give Dean his gift, or you gonna stand here till he's forty?"

Sam stared after him. Was the man some sort of super ninja of obscure information? Yes, he was, Sam decided. Moving quickly to catch up, Sam shortened his stride to match Bobby's once he was beside the other man.

It was nearly impossible for Sam to not bounce up the steps and into Bobby's kitchen. Dean looked up, bleary-eyed, eyes skipping from Sam to Bobby and back again.

"Hi. Morning. Did you sleep well?" _Yeah, smooth Sam, real cool_.

Dean eyed him up and down before giving Bobby a look and half-hearted grin. Snorting, Dean handed Sam a coffee mug.

Bobby's knuckles shoved into his side made Sam twist and jerk forward a step.

Another searching _look_ from Dean. "You two out for your morning date or something?"

That sent a shiver down Sam's spine. "Euw." Sam had no more warning than the sound of material whizzing through the air. "Oww!" He ducked away from Bobby's hat, blocking the second blow coming at his head with the back of his hand.

"You gonna stall all damn day?!" Bobby snapped.

Dean leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee and looking annoyingly amused. He knew. Sam was convinced he knew. Or…

"You told him," Sam blurted out, not caring if that pissed off Bobby or not.

"Oh for Pete's sake, Sam, I did _not,_" Bobby huffed. "But if _you_ don't, _I _will."

Dean silently looked from one to the other, finished his cup of coffee and poured another.

"It's your birthday in a few days. Your _thirtieth_ birthday." Why was it that everything he was saying came out as if he was some sort of idiot?

Dean grunted.

"I got…um, we got…" Sam waved one hand between himself and Bobby.

Shaking his head, Bobby crossed to the door and opened it. "Sam got you a gift. What he's trying so hard to ask you is to come outside and see it."

Nodding, Dean smirked and patted Sam's shoulder as he walked by. "Why didn't ya just say so, Sammy?"

Ambling down the steps Dean turned and looked back up at Sam who was still in the house. He raised one eyebrow and one hand. Sam sprinted down the steps and ignored how Dean snickered when Sam grabbed his shirt at the shoulder and marched, brother in tow, through the salvage yard.

"Gee, Sammy, if you got me a stripper, this sure is a crappy place to have her—" Dean's lips smacked shut when Sam took hold of both his shoulders, stopped him, and turned him to the 1937 Chevy Master.

Dean's breath sucking back into his lungs and expelling just as quickly told Sam his brother had no idea what Sam had been up to the past few days. "Sam." His name was nothing more than a blown out breath.

Sam grinned and rocked back and forth on his feet. "What do you think?"

Stepping away from him, Dean moved closer to the old—_ancient_—car and knelt down to look at something underneath. He cocked his head to one side, stood up, and moved slowly to the front of the car.

"Dean?" Sam said and immediately pulled his lower lip between his teeth.

Dean held up one hand as he headed around to the far side of the car. Sam held his breath and shot a look at Bobby who smiled and shook his head.

"I thought you—"

Again Dean's hand came up, palm facing Sam, stopping his words in his throat. Dean leaned down and looked into the car's interior. Finally, after what seemed like decades, he straightened and looked at Sam over the top of the car. A smile slowly spread over his face. "Sammy." His name came out breathless and sort of wet.

Sam burst into motion. Pulling out the folded piece of paper he'd had tucked away in his back pocket for days now, he closed the distance to his brother and held it out. "Look, I've got a list. Bobby helped me figure out what we'd need, and I did searches online to find where to go to get them." He stopped when Dean took the paper from him.

Standing there holding the paper in one hand, Dean ran the forefinger of his other hand down the list, nodding as he did so.

"I could help you with it," Sam said softly.

Dean looked up from the list, sharp gaze focused on his brother. "Damn straight you're gonna help me with this. You think for one minute I'm doing all this work by myself you're nuts." Pocketing the list, he clapped Sam's shoulder and headed for the house. "Get your ass moving, we need to have breakfast before we leave. I'm not listening to your stomach grumble and you bitch while we drive."

Sam grinned at Bobby. "See, I told you he'd love it!"

Bobby grouched something Sam didn't catch.

Then came the telltale whir of material through the air. "Ow!" Sam ducked away and ran to the house and up the stairs before Bobby could get another swipe at him.

Dean had a map out on the table next to the three plates of food he'd set down in the short time it'd taken Sam to get from where the Chevy sat to the kitchen.

"Okay," Dean said around mouthfuls of sausage. "I think our best bet is head east, hit here because I need these parts first, then we can shoot south to the second one, head back here and work with what we've gotten so far."

Sam nodded enthusiastically. Frankly, he didn't care if they drove zigzag and backwards as long as Dean was happy. Unlike the weeks of running, this was the good kind of road trip, the kind he liked and to which he actually looked forward. He and Dean, a mission to accomplish and a way to accomplish it; yeah, he was going to enjoy the next week or two.

He leaned back in his chair, drank some more coffee, and watched his brother turn into an excited child in front of his eyes over the prospect of this trip and fixing up an old car. It felt good. It felt right. Anything Sam could do to make Dean's life better, he'd do. In the span of a few minutes, gone was the antsy, agitated hunter of a few short weeks ago. He was replaced by a guy excited to have something to work on that pleased him. It was one of the few moments in Sam's life he could honestly say he was happy. It was one he'd treasure forever.

"C'mon, you going to sit there all day and eat? Let's go." Dean's hand swiped over Sam's hair, giving a quick ruffle on the way. Sam didn't even think to be annoyed, he didn't mind at all and in fact for once, he liked it. For the first time in too long, Dean was nudging him to hurry not to another hunt but to something they were doing just for themselves. For them to be brothers even if it was only going to last a short time before the next job reared its ugly head, and they were off to save the world…again.

Their first stop was a day's drive away and by the time they rolled into town it was late enough that everything was closed up. They'd spend the night, collect what they needed and plan to be on the road by noon the next day. In the meantime they found a bar to grab dinner and spend a few hours. Dean played some pool, picking up some cash before the two of them played a few games with each other for fun.

The entire evening they heard nothing about haunted libraries, mysterious deaths, impossible sightings or anything remotely resembling a spook, specter, shape-shifting monster. An entire evening without mention of anything resembling a hunt.

By the time they got back to their motel for the night, Sam was actually relaxed and thinking this whole project was going to be smooth and good for them both.


	2. Chapter 2

_Of course I forgot to put in my first post that there is spectacular art that goes along with this story. It's done by ThruTerry'sEyes and can be found on her website and mine, both of which I have links to on my profile, since I can never seem to be tricky enought to put a link in here. Please take a look at the art Terry made, she spent many hours and it's amazing!_

* * *

Cold and dark and hot combined impossibly at once and propelled Dean back down into the hideous _alone_. His arms tangled in something when he tried to move. Biting back a choked cry, he _refused_ to give them the satisfaction. Not knowing which one it was this time. _Did it matter_? It was this or alone, desperately, horribly alone. He wasn't sure which he hated more; being alone or what came when he wasn't alone.

Sometimes one would talk or maybe it was just Dean heard it. He was never sure. It didn't matter. Sam mattered. Sam cared what happened to him; these _things_ cared only about how to hurt. Hurt him, hurt Sam, hurt, hurt, hurt.

Mouth opening without his permission, a scream started to bubble from somewhere deep inside of him. He was surprised into silence when sweet, clean air sucked into his lungs. The harsh breathing and gurgling he heard was his own.

Dean pushed up on one arm and peered into the darkness.

"—Hn." Sam's groggy voice filtered out of the dark.

Shaking his head, Dean's eyes pulled to the direction of Sam's voice. _Sam_. Here. Sam was here. Dean was here. Dead people who had nothing remaining but souls didn't pull in deep breaths or feel how the mattress beneath them was lumpy and the sheets scratchy.

Sam muttered something Dean wasn't even sure was in English—or any language—but deciphered anyway as _you okay_?

Alive. He was alive. Sam was alive.

"I'm good. Go back to sleep, Sammy." Dean exhaled the words and swung out of bed, heading to the bathroom.

Sam responded by sort of flopping around and burrowing under his blanket, huffing a breath and settling into stillness again. Taking a few seconds to assure himself that Sam's chest rose and fell with normal, sleepy breathing, Dean padded silently across the room.

The bathroom floor was cold against his bare feet and when he flicked on the light, he squinted into the mirror for a few seconds before his eyes adjusted. Pulling his shirt over his head, Dean leaned on the counter and stared at his reflection. Sighing, he ran one hand lightly over the web of scars on his chest and abdomen.

Why was it that Sam twice now could see the scars, but only when he'd been sick? The answer was obvious. Sam could see them all the time but his mind was blocking what his eyes saw. Just as Dean's mind blocked out details of his time in Hell. Grabbing his shaving kit, he pulled out the small notebook he'd stashed in there, jotting down the few images and clues retained from his nightmare.

He should just take this notebook and hand it to Sam, let him see and read for himself. God, he desperately wanted Sam to be a part of this. But how was he to explain half memories and fleeting clues to Sam if he couldn't grasp the meanings and explain them to himself? He didn't want to lie to Sam or keep these things from him. In all truth, he wasn't lying about anything since he couldn't remember enough to formulate a decent lie.

When he had something concrete and coherent, he'd tell Sam. The absolute truth was, he needed Sam's input to figure the wisps of details and fleeting clues his own head offered from time to time. Even if Sam didn't know how, as he claimed, or didn't remember how, Dean was very sure a large part of his return from Hell was his brother's responsibility.

He stuffed the small notepad back into his shaving kit, washed his face, put his shirt back on, and stepped out of the bathroom, clicking off the light on his way out. Sam was sitting up, elbows on knees, hands hanging between his legs, eyes tracking Dean's movement across the room.

"What? I can't get up to pee?" Dean bounced on his bed and readjusted his sheet and blanket.

"I'm three feet from the bathroom. You didn't get up to pee."

Looking Sam right in the eye, Dean sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I got there and changed my mind."

Sam snorted, but swung his legs back onto the bed.

"If I had something to tell you, I would." It was the honest truth, too.

How was Dean to go into this without knowing details? Or at the very least having more than vague feelings and nightmare images to go on? Sam was Mr. Detail-Guy and Dean was still waiting for him to outgrow the constant question phase most kids left behind by age three or so. Trying to figure out the brief glimpses back to Hell he was offered while he slept without being able to offer something solid for Sam to go on and research was going to be nothing but an exercise in frustration for them both. It'd no doubt lead to an argument.

Dean had only a few short weeks ago begun to think Sam wasn't a mental wreck anymore. He'd only a few short weeks ago stopped acting like he was more crazy than not. Dean knew Sam blamed himself for his older brother's death; pity he couldn't see it in himself to be the blame for Dean's resurrection, too. He was trying to get rid of Sam's guilt, to work with him, not bash him back down. It'd been a whole three days since he'd somehow questioned Sam's mental stability, and Dean wanted the trend to continue.

How were he and Sam to break through the barriers without being totally destroyed from the inside? Maybe the answer was to not really remember, just go on what he knew or could learn. Maybe, Dean conceded, what he really needed to do for both their sakes was give them more time. Possibly Dean was expecting too much too soon.

One clue staring him in the face that he just couldn't let go of, and couldn't seem to grasp the meaning of _and_ which was making him more than a little nuts, was the fact Sam had twice now seen the scars on Dean only he was able to see. The scars left from Hellhound claws digging into his flesh as Sam begged and screamed, "_No_!" in the background. It was the last clear thing Dean remembered hearing, his brother's hysterical voice.

Which lead to the next question of why were they invisible to everyone but Dean? Bobby hadn't seen them, even when Dean appeared out of nowhere on his back steps. It couldn't be that Sam believed in the existence of the things like Hellhounds or that they'd rip a man to shreds in no time. Bobby certainly believed in those things too.

Dean pushed his thoughts away. Sam had worked hard to offer him this birthday gift and he sure as hell wasn't going to have it ruined for either of them. He'd even gone so far as to ignore the small signs of two possible hunts on their way to this town. Sam was going to have his birthday gift to Dean followed through with and nothing, _nothing_ was going to get in the way. If it so much as tried, Dean would kill it fast and sure.

He drifted back to sleep, waking hours later to sunshine peeking through plain beige curtains.

The door snicking shut softly and the smell of fresh coffee rousted him completely. He sat up, rubbed one hand through his hair, and used his other hand to grasp the offered cup.

Clearing his throat, he muttered, "Thanks."

"Sure." Sam sat on the other bed and sipped his coffee quietly.

"There's an IHOP right before the highway, want to pit stop there for breakfast then head out?"

"Uh huh."

"Sammy." Dean put the cup on the table and swung around to face Sam fully. "If I could remember anything other than muddled up, stupid dream stuff, I'd tell you. Honestly."

"You would?"

"Yes! By the time I'm awake enough to make sense of any of it, I can't. It's just dream stuff. You see things, you have visions, you have dreams that are vivid, and you remember minute details. Don't make what you have into me, I'm not you. Dude, I just get plain old abstract dreams and nightmares. They're probably nothing."

Sam chewed his lip for a minute before nodding. "Yeah, you're right. I think I forget how I dream isn't how most people dream." His eyes flicked to Dean then down to the carpet. "If there was anything—?" His voice softened and trailed off.

"I'd tell you. I want to figure out what the dreams are, but I can't. Mostly I see flashes of color."

That seemed to satisfy him, and Dean was suddenly and unexpectedly treated to a brief twitching up of Sam's lips and dimples. "Okay."

"Good. Now that we've got that settled, we've got an old car to fix up." Dean smacked his knee and stood up.

That brought a genuine smile to Sam's face and a change of expression that let Dean know his mood was immediately lightened.

Breakfast at IHOP became a treat Dean had thought long lost. Sam, ever the detail guy, Mr. Organized himself, had made yet another set of lists detailing out their project. Dean didn't need all this, he'd rebuilt one car, he could rebuild another one, but it seemed to make Sam happy planning all this out. Between bites of pancakes, Canadian ham, and eggs, Sam chattered on about how he'd found the car parts and what the original paint was like. Dean didn't care, this was the first time in a long time Sam seemed _Sam_.

The drive to the next town took up most of the day and after a brief stop for lunch, Dean popped in one of his blues tapes. Ever since he'd found out Sam knew very little about jazz and blues Dean made it his mission to fill in the missing gaps in his brother's musical education. Sam twisted around and dug through his computer bag in the back seat and pulled out a book. Wiggling around until his knees were bent and braced against the dash, he set the book against them looking content.

An hour later when the book tilted off Sam's lap, Dean shifted his gaze from the road to his brother long enough to pull the book away and give his legs a nudge. Even half asleep, Sam uncurled, rolled partially on his side, head leaning back against the seat. A minute later he was sound asleep. Another thing he hadn't done in so long and it warmed Dean through to know Sam was feeling safe enough to once again be himself. The kid had slept in the car since he was a baby, Dean too, but in the last months that was a memory of the past. Not a memory anymore and it gave Dean a small sense of control over their lives back.

It was early evening when they hit their next stop, and again everything was closed up for the night. Sam had woken up an hour or so before when Dean stopped for gas and to release the coffee he'd been drinking as they drove. They'd been heading south, but the winter chill was still in the air.

"Have we been here before?" Sam asked, pulling his duffel from the back of the car.

Dean had to laugh, Sam asked that about every third town in which they stopped. "Sam, I'm betting it's safe to say we've been to a lot of places before."

"Yeah, but I don't think they have _that_."

Following Sam's extended arm to a park across from the motel, Dean shuddered. "Urgh."

Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Eloquent."

"You sure as hell don't see one of those everyday."

"Thank God for that." Sam sidestepped away from the car and toward the motel door.

Dean shook his head, following his brother inside. "World's Biggest Dipped Candle," he read the sign sitting to one side of the spectacle. "Looks like the world's biggest boner."

"It's obscene." Sam snickered. "But I swear I've seen it before and that it gave me nightmares."

"Flickerston, home of the World's Biggest Dipped bon—err—candle. Yeah, I think we were here, once. Must have been a long time ago." Dean dropped his stuff and turned to give Sam a pat on the shoulder and a tug on his arm. "C'mon, I'm hungry and thirsty. Time to hit the night spots."

* * *

They'd been here before though Sam barely remembered more than the town's name and the phallic candle in town square that gave him nightmares for months after their first trip through. Dean didn't remember much more. They'd tried to pull some details from each other's memories the night before while they ate dinner then found a bar in which to pass the time. _Flickerston_, Sam recognized the name the minute he saw it, though memory of the place, the people, why they'd been there was not to be found. Not that he couldn't guess; they'd been there to hunt something, more specifically for their father to hunt something.

For some reason Sam had the feeling his brain didn't want to remember Flickerston, and it wasn't because of a spear of obscene wax.

The last time they'd passed through the weather had been colder, frigid even; it'd been January, a few days before Dean's birthday, Sam recalled. What he did remember still alternately angered and disturbed him on such a deep level its intensity surprised him. He'd begged, pleaded with their father to have a party for Dean, but the job, a job about which Sam at that point had no clue, always came first. Sam couldn't understand then, or now really, why Dean never came first. He didn't care anymore that he'd been shut out, left behind from the truth; Dean always made things right for Sam. He was angry things hadn't been made right for Dean, though even at his young age Sam had tried.

Dean's birthday had come and gone in that town. What Sam remembered most was it might have been the first time in his young life he'd spent a night without his brother. There'd been so few times in his life he'd ever truly been separated from Dean that they stood out in his mind like glaring, neon signs. Dean's tenth birthday was the first in a very short string of exactly five if he counted his time at Stanford.

College had been different for Sam in that regard. His father had told him don't come back and Dean had stood there, shocked and, Sam understood now, shattered. Sam only wanted to go to school; he'd imagined Dean and their father coming to visit. John never did, not that Sam knew about until it was too late. He knew Dean would have and was never more than a phone call away.

Sam hadn't been more than a call away from Dean, either. He'd loved Jess, he missed her, and probably wouldn't have stayed at school had it not been for his life with her. But in the end, he'd driven off with his brother for a weekend the first time Dean asked. It'd taken a few years, but Sam saw now, going off to college hadn't really separated him from Dean.

Dean dying had done a pretty decent job of separation. Oddly enough it was that and the first time, the time here in Flickerston that left a lasting imprint and trauma on Sam.

It had been Dean's tenth birthday, and Sam remembered it with a shiver and a feeling of dread clenching his chest.

Leaving their motel room, Sam walked the short distance to a shopping plaza. The bright sun and crisp, clean air of winter did nothing for him because of the pressure building inside and pressing outward against his ribs. Since they'd arrived in this town, his skin was a constant tingle as if some invisible bit of moisture clung to his spine that he couldn't brush away. An itch he couldn't scratch. The memory of Dean's tenth birthday in this town now ramped that feeling and added to it the sensation of tiny, unseen and unknown talons scratching over his flesh.

Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the stiff breeze, Sam took in more of the town as he walked more for distraction than anything else. Flickerston boasted the most candle shops in the country, as well as the _World's Largest Dipped Candle_. That he remembered. Even at five, Sam had thought the candle was something obscene. Dean had made jokes about it for days when they'd been here last. He made the same jokes yesterday. Seems nearly twenty years hadn't improved Dean's raunchy jokes any.

In a town full of candles where lighting was at an amazing premium, it was a dark place. Not just the décor, but everything here was dark. The kind of dark that shadowed one's soul. As Sam walked, he peered from one side to the other, occasionally glancing up. He felt as if he was being watched by something about to jump out at him any second. Shadows seemed to stretch out longer, and each one he walked through sent shivers down his spine. He waited for one of them to fold up from the sidewalk and cover him completely, smother the life out of him in seconds.

Jerking his shoulders up and down and rolling his head side to side, Sam gave himself a healthy mental shake. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. Eventually he managed to get the memory of last night to divert his thoughts off this town and its odd, too dark shadows.

They'd spent a good part of the evening in a nearby bar, one within walking distance. Dean preferred the ones they could walk to, no worries about cops picking them up driving away from a bar to check for drunk drivers. The place had a wide-screen TV and a basketball game that ended up getting most of Sam's attention since Dean's attention was focused on one Roxanne, a young woman they'd met not too long after arriving. Roxanne was nice and even laughed at Dean's jokes about condoms big enough for the _World's Largest Dipped Candle_. Seems Sam wasn't the only one who thought that thing was obscene.

When Roxanne got enough beer in her to ask if Dean's condoms were small enough for the _World's Largest Dipped Candle,_ Sam shut out everything but the game on TV. It wasn't too long after halftime that Roxanne, hand in Dean's, pulled his brother out the door. Sam got an over-the-shoulder smirk—_don't wait up I'll be back in a few hours_—and wink—_go get laid_—from Dean that he returned with a nod—_yeah, yeah, you're getting breakfast, be careful_. Most people wouldn't have noticed the entire conversation taking place in those few simple looks and gestures between two brothers.

Most people didn't have brothers willing to go to Hell for them, either.

Sam looked around the bar, bored. He watched the rest of the game, swallowed down what was left of his second beer that night and dropped enough money on the bar to pay for his and Dean's drinks along with a tip. He said goodnight to a few of the people he'd watched the game with and headed back to the motel.

The Impala was still there; Dean never brought girls back to their room so Sam figured Roxanne must live close enough that they went to her place or somewhere close enough Dean could walk back. If not, Sam was sure he'd get a call later in the night, probably more towards morning, Dean wanting to be picked up. For reasons that always made Sam feel a warm appreciation for his brother, Dean felt the need to keep his 'dates' away from wherever he and Sam stayed for the night.

Sam took a shower and climbed into bed, dozing, not really wanting or expecting to completely sleep until Dean's return.

"_Dad, please?" Sam pushed away the drops of moisture threatening to overflow onto his cheeks. "Please, please." He begged in the small, soft voice that always got his way with Dean._

_Not so with their father._

_John picked him up and gently sat him on the bed. "Son, I know you don't understand, but we don't know anyone here to have a birthday party with and Dean doesn't care about things like that. I have to go to work. Dean ran to the store, he'll be back in a minute. You sit tight."_

"_But daddy, yes, Dean does care. It's his __**birthday**__. __**I**__ care. It can just be the three of us. Please?"_

_A large hand brushed over the top of his head, Sam ducked away and John heaved out a sigh, probably angry because Sam never ducked away when Dean's hand brushed the top of Sam's head. "Sammy, I'm sorry. This is important and your brother understands. Maybe next week we can do something, a special dinner." John turned away, moving to the door. "Dean will be back in a few minutes. You know the rules; no one comes in but him."_

"_Yes, sir." Sam mumbled the words at his knees. He kept his chin pressed firmly to his chest._

_The door shut and Sam's tears hit his legs._

Sam jerked awake. He was half sitting and half lying against the headboard, a position that made his neck hurt. Scrunching his abs tight, he pulled upright and rubbed his neck, twisting his head side to side. He didn't want to identify the things that pulled and popped along his neck and spine.

Where the hell had that dream come from?

The scene replayed in his head, over and over, as vivid as it had been twenty years ago and just as hurtful. This town was nothing but one bad memory.

"Bastard," Sam grumbled, swung out of bed, and headed to the bathroom. He was still splashing water on his face when Dean ambled through the door.

Stopping short, Dean just stood there, sort of staring at him. "What're you doing up?"

"Had to pee."

"Oh. Sort of like me last night?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "Sort of like that." He sidestepped away from the bathroom when Dean motioned at it with one hand.

As the door closed, Sam couldn't help that feeling coming back to him that made his skin crawl and his chest tighten. Resettling on his bed, he tried to shake his apprehension. The feelings doubled when Dean sauntered out of the bathroom a few minutes later and climbed into bed. Another feeling wormed its way into Sam. Hurt. Dean paid no attention to the fact Sam had just admitted to some disturbing nightmare. As much as he complained about Dean's constant questions about his dreams and Dean's sometimes overbearing mother hen attitude, Sam was suddenly cast afloat in a sea of hurt, feeling all alone.

Why hadn't Dean asked about Sam's nightmare?

Feeling stupid and childish from the burn behind his eyes and the tears pricking near their corners, Sam flipped over, punched out his pillow, and tried to sleep. Dean's response was to snore.

* * *

Sam stopped and stared up and down the plaza. He'd been so entangled with memories from last night, still feeling stupid and childish about his reaction to Dean not asking about his nightmare, he'd walked right by his destination. Ducking his head and offering the others walking along the sidewalk a sheepish, shy grin, he casually turned around and retraced his steps.

He'd not only walked right by his destination, he'd gone two stores beyond it.

Pushing his way through the door, Sam had to duck to keep from banging his head on the bell hanging there jangling as it happily announced his arrival in the bakery. He stopped for a few seconds to fill his lungs completely and appreciate the smells swirling around this place. Music from somewhere in the back floated out and crawled into his ears.

_You know he got the cure, but then he went astray. _

_He used to stay awake, to drive the dreams he had away. _

_He wanted to believe in the hands of love. _

_His head it felt heavy as he came across the land, a dog started cryin', like a broken-hearted man at the howling wind, at the howling wind_.

Dean used to stay up and make sure Sam's bad dreams stayed away. Now he really was being childish and far too dependent. He was a grownup who should have long since outgrown the need for his big brother to chase away the fears and terrors of his dreams. Shaking himself and pulling his jacket tighter, he focused on the morning's task.

The woman behind the counter watched him expectantly. Something just outside his periphery darkened. When he turned to see what it was, it was gone. The wind outside picked up blowing some paper along the sidewalk before it died down. Sam imagined shadows slithering under the door to wrap around him, smothering him.

_It's you, itsyouitsyou_.

"Uh, hi, I was uh…cake, I need a cake. Birthday cake." He tried to be casual while he looked around the small bakery. Shifting shadows he decided were part of his entirely too active imagination combined with lack of sleep, food, and coffee.

"Folks around here don't usually buy cakes for birthdays. Or even celebrate them. Not healthy."

Sam blinked at her. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? "Got chocolate?" Oh yeah, he was winning the dazzling conversation award for sure. The hair along the back of his neck bristled, and he shivered despite the warmth of the bakery and his coat. It took everything in him to not turn around and check to see if there were shadows coming at his back.

The woman snorted and pointed to a case of cakes. Leaning over it to peer through the glass at his selections, his own reflection stared back at him. Then it morphed into something else. Taller than him, thin, bony, and gray with no eyeballs filling the holes where eyes should be. The mouth opened to a round "O" with protruding teeth looking like some giant blood sucking worm.

Sucking a yelp back into his chest, Sam hit the glass and jerked backwards.

"Boy, are you on drugs? Because, if you are, you can just get out right now."

"Huh?" He looked at her then back at his reflection, which stayed looking like Sam Winchester. He pointed to a small, round, cake covered in chocolate frosting. "Is that one chocolate inside, too?" She nodded. "I don't suppose you'd write on it for me?" He twisted around, scanning the store. "Candles?"

"Not here. No birthday candles anywhere." The woman boxed the cake and handed it over. In a town full of candles, no one celebrated birthdays. That hit about a ten on Sam's weird shit o'meter, which was pretty impressive considering the things he'd seen in his life.

Sam paid for his purchase and in trying to get the hell out of that bakery nearly knocked over some woman with a baby. He mumbled an apology, gripped the bag with Dean's cake in it so tightly his fingers ached, and hurried down the sidewalk. Thankfully, at the end of the plaza was a bench. Sam sank down onto it; he needed to get his head together before going back to Dean. His brother was half a breath away from locking Sam up in some psych hospital he was sure…_would Dean really do that_?...Maybe not, but Dean certainly had his doubts lately about Sam's sanity, or lack thereof. Sam was, not for the first time, questioning that sanity himself.

Crumpling onto the bench, Sam sat with one fist jammed against his mouth, breathing in and out until his hammering heart slowed. He ignored the odd looks people gave him. Pushing his feet farther in front of him, he suddenly had the need to get them away from the shadow of the bench. It was as if that spot were a black hole waiting to swallow him whole. Another chill swept over him making him look around. Everything seemed normal, but in every shadow he saw tentacles reaching out to him, slithering just out of reach made his skin crawl more, his chest tighten and his mind crank into overdrive.

_It's you…coming for you…it's you_…

Sam looked around for someone speaking, but he knew the voice and its message was in his head.

Shifting light, a dark snake of a shadow skimming the sidewalk across the street drew his attention to their motel across the street. Door after door was drenched for nothing more than a fleeting second by a darkening of the air in front of it. Sam couldn't really call it shadows, just the space outside each door hazed over. He'd blink and it'd be gone. Until it moved to the next.

He pushed slowly to his feet, breathing hard and deep when the door to their room darkened. _Dean is in there_. This time the light didn't come back. A figure appeared, turned, met Sam's eyes and pulled its mouth from an "O" to a horrific grin displaying rows of small, pointy teeth. It pointed with a ridiculously long, boney finger ending in an obscenely long, narrow nail to the scrolling ticker on a bank next to the motel. The letters _January 24_ rolled across in garish green dots.

When the dark figure melted through the door, Sam's heart shuddered hard in his chest.

"Dean!" The shouted warning came out a harsh, strangled whisper.

Grabbing up his bag, Sam bolted across the street, dodging oncoming cars and ignoring the blaring horns and curses aimed at him from cars and drivers. He shoved the door to their room open so hard it banged against the wall and bounced back with enough force it nearly hit him in the face.

"Dean!" This time Sam's voice worked better. He was shouting—_screaming—_his brother's name at the top of his lungs.

Dean ambled out of the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out of one side of his mouth, eyebrows up.

"Are you all right? It's in here. I saw it come in here!"

Dean studied him for a minute, watched calmly as Sam ran through their room, tossing aside chairs, mattresses, and clothes. He shrugged and turned back to the sink, spitting out brush and toothpaste.

"Ya know, Sam," Dean wiped a towel over his mouth and dried his hands before throwing it to the side. His other hand made a circular motion near his temple. "This crazy act of yours is getting old."

Sam froze. The bag dropped to the floor. His stomach clenched and his knees felt weak. "What?" Images of Dean dragging him off to some institution and leaving him locked away, alone and begging for mercy, begging for his brother to come back, plundered Sam's mind.

Dean shook his head. He walked to his bed and reached for a shirt. "So, tell me, what is it now? Seeing numbers again? Or hearing voices? Gonna blow up more TVs?" Dean's head vanished for a second before popping out the neck of his shirt. One shoulder jerked up and down, and he quirked an eyebrow at Sam.

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Dean. A wraith, I saw a wraith. It came in here."

Making a big show of looking around, Dean shrugged. "Okay, Sam, sure, whatever you say. But wraiths only come for vengeance, what is it going to be vengeful about? The bad display of a giant candle in the town square?"

Clamping a hand over his mouth, Sam thought he was going to vomit. Dean didn't believe him. When had Dean not believed him, when was it he ever openly mocked what Sam said he saw?

Dean smirked. The bathroom light went out. Even though it was morning and broad daylight outside, their room was suddenly drenched in black. Stumbling forward, Sam tried to call out to his brother but his voice failed completely. Fumbling with the light between the beds Sam finally flicked it on, flooding their room in a soft glow. The dark cleared away, sunlight streamed through the window and open door.

Spinning in a circle, Sam called, "Dean?" Where there had been two brothers a minute before the lights went out, now there was only one.

Sam was alone. Dean was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's date with Roxanne hadn't exactly worked out as he'd hoped it might. As a matter of fact, it hadn't worked out at all. Roxanne wasn't a particularly nice girl. He suspected she wasn't a girl at all, she probably wasn't even human. Leaving his brother sitting alone in a bar Dean had been plied with pretty eyes and soft curves, duped with the promise of sex. In fact, he'd been totally taken in by Roxanne and her 'attributes'. She was too perfect, too willing, and too sexy. He should've known better by now.

Wasn't that just special?

The room he was in had a door; wandering to it, Dean opened it…again. Exactly as had happened the previous thousand or so times he'd opened that door, it simply opened back into the same room. The room he currently stood inside of. He couldn't leave. There was water, food, a bed, and a bathroom but no exit.

Wasn't that just incredibly special?

The first order of business was getting out. The second was getting to Sam. The third was finding Roxanne and ending her supernatural _whatever-she-was_ ass.

His mind skipped back to the first order of business, which lead to the second. _Sam_. The kid was _out there_ somewhere and seriously freaked out. Freaked out and heading toward melt down. He was heading there too damn fast for Dean's liking. Dean didn't need to see or hear his brother to know this; it was something he simply _knew_, something he _felt_. Accepting this new part of himself instead of resisting it, or trying to dispel it, and working with it was something he was beginning to see with crystal clarity was not only a necessity but the only way they'd survive this war. Right now it was giving him insight into what was going on with Sam minute by minute, even though they were separated by a distance unknown to Dean.

Memories, events, even facts about his time in Hell were coming back to him, things he was sure demons didn't want him knowing. What had merely been feelings and sensations before were now solidifying into knowledge. Dean had yet to really tell Sam; mostly because the memories were still sketchy, and he was having a hard time putting into words what he felt. He justified his silence with the thought he couldn't explain to Sam something he couldn't explain to himself.

His connection to Sam and Sam's to him was coming out of the fog. It was taking a clearer form and shape. There were still holes and things neither understood. Dean had no idea how to fill in those holes. This wasn't like something they could check out on the internet or go to the library and research. Filling the holes was a necessity however, if for no other reason than saving Sam's sanity. The importance of understanding his new found path into Sam's psyche went far beyond that. It was an integral part of a way to fight back, a way Dean had yet to fully comprehend. Maybe it'd always been there and now had become stronger. Dean always did have a knack for knowing what was up with Sam or when he was in trouble. The kid had a talent for finding himself in dire straights, and Dean had a talent for showing up just in time.

Dean understood one thing above all others. They needed each other in a way he could barely define. Alone and separated, was what demons wanted, that was beyond obvious at this point. It was also bordering on dangerous.

All this thinking was fascinating but was getting Dean exactly nowhere.

There was jack shit Dean could do about any of this until he got out of this damn room. Shouting wordlessly, he pounded his fist into the door until it bruised purple and swollen. Just to show the door, he turned around and kicked the bed—hard—swearing when his foot started to throb.

Sam was out there, alone, unsure, afraid. Dean felt Sam's panic and desperation like someone pouring cold water over his head. He'd only begun to think maybe his brother's mental state was healthy and solid once more. Sam had just begun to stop asking _what if they try something like Cutter's Landing again, _while Dean had just begun to sleep at night without worrying his brother was going to disappear or he'd wake up to a Sam rocking and pulling his hair and mumbling incoherently.

Now he felt it through his chest, a dull ache starting around his heart and radiating outward. Sam was alone, in a bad way, and heading right back to the mindset he'd been in right after Dean died. The worst part was that Dean was powerless to do anything to help.

Images of what Sam might be doing and what he might be going through played out in his mind's eye based on nothing but the sensations and emotions roiling through him, yet not originating from him. Another in the ever-growing list of those things Dean somehow simply _knew_.

The sad fact was right now Dean couldn't do anything but sit and feel how his brother's world and his sanity were crumbling away.

* * *

"_DEAN_!"

Sam's shout echoed around the room.

Gone. Dean was _gone_. Why was Dean gone? Why hadn't Dean cared about Sam's nightmares and why had he said those things about Sam seeing numbers and hearing voices again? Why had he said Sam was crazy?

Maybe it was because Sam was.

"I'm not crazy…I'm not crazy…I'm _not_." Sam pleaded with the empty room. Yeah, that made him sound completely sane and totally calm and together.

Maybe Dean never came back from the dead or from Hell. _Sam's a bomb_. Maybe Sam was still in the caretaker's shack in Wyoming, dying, his mind dredging up events and twisting them to some odd reality when he was really in his death throes. Sam had gone to Hell as surely as Dean. The only difference was Sam's Hell was encased completely in his own mind. Shivers ran down his spine and a cold, hard spike of fear lanced through his chest. How was Sam to escape his Hell? He'd never deserved to be saved, but Dean deserved saving and more.

"Nonono." Sam sank to his knees; hand in his hair, tugging at it as he rocked. Dean was alive, had come back from Hell months ago. He was alive and real and solid and _Dean_. "NO!" Surging to his feet, Sam yanked his hand from his head, curled that same hand into a fist, and punched out. The hapless lamp met a bitter and noisy end, crashing to the floor.

The sting of ceramic meeting his flesh and the sound of that same ceramic shattering startled him. Something inside him snapped back into place, and he started to _believe_ he could _think_ again.

He crossed the room and snatched his laptop, remembering to not throw it on the table. Yanking it open he powered it up, shifting from foot to foot and waving at it. "Come on, come _ON_."

There was something about this town that nagged at him. It was because they were _here_. Maybe it was because they were _here_ on _this_ particular day.

"I have an IQ of one-forty-four, for chrissake. _Think_, you stupid bastard!"

Taking a few deep breaths, screaming and berating himself, shouting at the laptop wasn't helping. "Calm down. You'll find Dean. You always find Dean. Dean always finds you." Always, always, _always_. The how and why of that was something Sam often thought to question and work out, but never did. How or why didn't matter so much right now as the fact that this was simply something about them, between them that _was_.

Sam nearly stopped breathing and collapsed when his browser finally showed up. He typed in _Flickerston_ and today's date. He felt his eyes go impossibly wide when he read the first link in the list.

_Flickerston Illuminator_…

He groaned at the name of the local paper.

_January 24, 1979_…

Dean's birthday. Jess's birthday in a different year. Lots of people's birthday.

Emily Swartz's birthday.

_The birthday event of the decade was cut short and ended tragically this afternoon with the suicide of Jimmy Konz. Standing in the middle of the elaborate garden party hosted by Emily's parents for her thirtieth birthday, her beloved fiancée, Jimmy, took his own life with a gunshot to the head, marring the festivities. He fell face first into the three-tiered cake and was pronounced dead a short time later by the coroner. _

_A sobbing, distraught Emily was taken away by ambulance to the local hospital. Before the doors were shut, she could be heard shouting that no one would ever enjoy a birthday in her town again._

_The Swartz family are direct descendants of the town's founding family and premier candle makers, the Flickers, to whom the monument candle was erected in their honor in the town square over two decades ago_.

_Jimmy Konz will be laid to rest following the coroner's inquiry, date and time to be announced_.

"You've _got_ to be _kidding_. This is what wraiths show up for, wants vengeance for?" This was almost too stupid to hunt. Sam was quite sure if Dean hadn't been involved, they'd have laughed this one off. Dean had been right about one thing when he'd commented before vanishing into thin air that wraiths came because of a bad decoration in the middle of the town.

This was no joke, or anything to laugh at, however. Dean was gone, taken by wraiths. It was the only explanation Sam could see. The more he thought about it, the more Dean's attitude and actions since returning to their room last night made sense. It was possible he'd already been under the wraiths' influence. Having no idea if wraiths could affect a person in such a way or not was something he needed to find out. Sam wanted so very much to believe this explanation rather than the other option, that Dean really thought he was a burden and out of his skull crazy.

Sam didn't know much about wraiths other than they appeared for vengeance. He needed to stay calm, he couldn't concentrate otherwise. Right now his best course of action was to put his good research skills to their fullest use. It was time for him to fill in the holes in his education and learn everything he could about wraiths, why they'd be here and what they'd want with Dean.

Rummaging in his computer bag, he pulled out a legal pad and pen, setting it beside the laptop. The shadows, normal shadows, in the room were long when the room turned from light and colored to dim and gray. Sam had notes scribbled on half the pages of his pad. He took a swallow from the coffee cup he'd refilled four times now, and yeah, maybe shouldn't have gone for that last cup. Grimacing, he shoved it away. The acid burned all the way down his throat; he felt every inch of its path before it crashed into his stomach, curdling and churning.

Shoving away from the table too quickly, Sam had to stand there for a few seconds and wait for the room to catch up with him. His bladder was announcing in a rather loud and rude way that if it didn't get some attention, it was going to explode. Going to the bathroom, he took care of that immediate need then splashed water over his face before sticking his head under the faucet and gulping some down. He needed something to eat and something to drink besides too strong, oily coffee.

The only thing in the room was the cake he'd bought for Dean, which had an appeal factor of exactly zero right now. Flopping on the bed he let his back stretch, easing the kinks in his spine and knotted muscles. When his eyes drifted closed Sam sat upright as if jolted by lightening. He couldn't fall asleep. He had too much to read yet and not nearly enough clues to finding Dean.

Reluctantly pushing away from the bed, Sam dumped the coffee and refilled the cup with water from the tap. Resettling at the table, pen in hand, he was back at his laptop searching site after site for any tidbit of information that might help. The words blurred and ran together. Sam let his head drop onto his palm and his mind spun and chanted a steady…_find Dean…learn about wraiths... only way to find Dean_…

_Sam sat on the bed staring at the door. Even though his feet couldn't reach the floor that didn't stop his right leg from bouncing up and down hitting nothing but air. Each passing minute had it bouncing higher and faster._

_Dean was coming. Dad said Dean would be right back. Sam willed the door to open, willed for Dean to come strolling through, ruffle Sam's hair in the way Sam hated and call him midget, which Sam hated even more. _

"_Come in the door. Come in the door," Sam chanted softly._

_Dean would be here any second now, Sam __**knew**__ he would. Dean never even let Sam cross the street or walk to the car alone, he sure wouldn't leave Sam alone at night in a new motel room with Dad gone. He wouldn't, Dean just wouldn't do that, no way, not ever._

"_Dean, come back…Dean, come back…"_

"Dean, come back." The sound of Sam's own voice startled him awake. Jerking up from where he was hunched over, asleep—passed out—on his laptop, Sam looked around the room. Hours had gone by. Fingers against his forehead rubbed the dents created by the keyboard. This wasn't helping.

Or maybe it was.

A little bit of sleep and another surfaced memory he'd tried so hard to keep buried cleared his head a bit and clicked something into place in his mind.

The person Emily Swartz loved the most, the person who was her world, had died brutally on her birthday. Sam wondered, had she known Jimmy's mental state, that he was near suicide? Had she tried to save him, taken steps to avoid his actions much as Sam had tried and failed to save Dean?

Dean had died brutally on Sam's birthday.

Wraiths appeared for vengeance. Sam admitted, he wanted revenge against the demons who'd slaughtered his brother and then tortured him in Hell. The fact Dean had returned never dowsed Sam's own need for revenge against those demons. It was an ever-present burn just under his skin. Though Sam could barely admit to himself how badly he wanted his revenge, let alone anyone else and never to Dean.

Sam had caused this. He'd brought them to this town on this date. Sam had brought Dean right to the wraiths and the wraiths to Dean. It felt as if Dean had died all over again, but this time it was Sam who'd killed him.

* * *

Dean glared. He—_it_—glared back.

"I get my hands around your neck and…"

"Yes, I know. You'll rip out my spleen or some other vital organ." He—_it_—smiled then snickered. "Oh, well, _if_ I had internal vital organs."

"You're an asshole," Dean snarled and circled around the thing in a man's form keeping him company.

"So are you. Not as big a one as most demons, but, eh, splitting hairs."

Leaning against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, it was a supreme effort on Dean's part to keep his voice calm, his demeanor neutral. "What do you want?" It was probably a stupid question, and he was going to get nothing but sideways answers and riddles, but he had to start somewhere.

It snickered again. How Dean hated that snicker. "Why, I thought that was obvious from the very first time we met at that quaint college. Where was it again?" Waving one hand in the air its lips barely turned up. "Eh, who cares?" Another blink of the eye, and it turned serious. "Little baby brother Sammy."

Dean felt his lip twitching and clenched his hands into fists. He needed information and if there was one thing he knew, this creature would talk its damn fool head off given half the chance. "You just like screwing with him?"

"Yes, I do. You? You're not so much fun though. Sam is…he's…" It sighed, smiling wide, full and predatory. "He's got something, something very special. Sammy's a special boy." It paced around, voice oozing out of it like snake oil. "I like special boys. You're special, too, but I don't like you as much. You just don't get all…what's the word I want…insane, or maybe desperate when you're left by yourself." It shrugged. "Whatever, it's just fun. Want to know the fun part, the really fun part?" It giggled. "Taking that special part that's been in the two of you all along, but you're both too dumb to see or use, and juicing it up. That's all I'm doing, really."

"What—?"

"Time I go play with little baby brother Sammy. I don't want him jealous of all the time I'm spending here, with you."

Dean pushed off the wall, stepping forward two paces before the creature blinked out of sight only to reappear behind him. Spinning to face it, Dean spat, "I'm telling you the same thing I've told every demon who is stupid enough to face me. You can't have Sam."

"But I already do. Poor little special boy Sammy, all alone in the world. He doesn't do alone very well, gets all creepy and dangerous, swinging around sharp objects, stabbing anything in sight. Really, did you have to teach him to throw a knife that well?" When Dean growled, it just laughed and went on. "He didn't even know you were gone at first." With a dramatic sigh it picked at its nails. "But he knows now."

"If you hurt him—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, loss of vital internal organs I don't really have." It shrugged. "You shoulda seen him, all those Tuesdays, hunting me down, trying to kill whatever was killing you. That was sweet but not as sweet as the _Wednesday_. Six months little brother Sammy was without you. He went on a literal killing spree. Six months. And it was a glorious six months. I told him he needed to let go of you, but he's a stubborn ass bastard if I ever saw one." It barked a short laugh. "Hell, he was even willing to put a knife in your buddy Bobby's back and drain every drop of his blood to get you back. Time little baby brother Sammy learns to let go. He doesn't need you and by the time he gets you back this time, he'll be so desperate he'll do whatever you…erm…I say. Time for you both to let go."

Its face morphed from the familiar one to an even more familiar one. The face Dean saw in the mirror.

The snap of two fingers and the trickster was gone, leaving Dean alone.

Another wordless shout ripping out of him, Dean grabbed the closest thing to him, a lamp, and flung it into the wall.

"Uh uh uh…" A disembodied voice floated down from the ceiling. "Stop wrecking the furniture. You two are quite the pair. But, not for long."

The lamp reassembled itself and hopped back onto the table. The voice vanished, leaving Dean drenched in silence.

* * *

Twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four long, torturous, unproductive hours and Sam was no closer to finding Dean than he'd been in the seconds after Dean vanished. He'd researched wraiths until his eyes burned and wanted to jump from their sockets. Rocking back and forth in the chair, Sam shredded a piece of paper as his mind chewed over what he knew or more to the point didn't know.

Wraiths came for vengeance.

Emily was angry with her fiancée for dying, she wanted vengeance. The problem was she had had no one to direct it toward. Not that Sam could know of for sure anyway. Had she blamed herself? Or maybe she'd blamed someone else, Jimmy or his family, some outside influence. Sam couldn't find any evidence of financial problems or elicit affairs for either Emily or Jimmy.

Sam was angry with Dean for making a deal that sent him to his death, a deal made because of Sam. A deal Sam caused because he'd turned his back on his enemy. A deal Sam hadn't been able to stop no matter how hard he'd tried, how much he'd researched and how much work he'd done. The deal came due and Sam watched as Hellhounds he was unable to see tore Dean apart feet from him while he was helpless to stop them. He would have done anything, given anything to save Dean, but in the end what he had wasn't nearly enough.

Sam was angry that demons infiltrated every bit of their lives, manipulated them, and used them for playthings.

Sam was angry.

Then Dean had come back.

Sam shouldn't be angry anymore, but he was. He was angry and wanted demons, all of them, to pay for what they'd done to Dean.

It had been a long time before Sam could close his eyes without seeing Dean's body flipped and jerked side to side. His flesh ripped, his muscles slashed, his blood spurting across his face and onto the floor on which he lay. Dean's lifeless eyes staring up and beyond Sam. Sleep for those first weeks after Dean died and even after he'd come back was short and torturous. Every time Sam dozed off even for a few minutes, it seemed he was to relive those few moments at midnight when Dean's deal came due.

Those images were dredged up, fresh and vivid now. Even awake and with his eyes open, Sam pictured the horror as if he were looking at the scene, Dean dead, his chest ripped open, the light gone from his eyes, dead.

Wiping his face against his shoulder, Sam took a few deep, shaky breaths. He needed to calm down and get a grip.

Dean had to be somewhere. He hadn't been torn apart by unseen Hellhounds, as far as Sam knew he hadn't even been hurt. The more he thought about it the last time he was sure Dean was Dean was when they were together in the bar, right before he left with Roxanne. The Dean who'd returned later that night and who Sam had seen the next morning maybe wasn't Dean at all, or was Dean under wraith influence.

None of it made sense. Sam had no real theory or explanation, but he knew what he'd seen, he was positive of what he'd seen right before Dean vanished. Never mind that in every bit of information he read, wraiths didn't make people disappear.

Wraiths came as harbingers of death and took their victims' souls. Never mind they always left an empty, cold corpse. Never mind those things. Sam had seen the wraiths. He'd seen the shadow crossing their door, darkening it. He'd seen Dean one second and not the next.

This was something different. Something new. Something not in the five or so thousand years of written record chronicling the supernatural from cultures old and new, from every corner of the world of which Sam knew, to which he had access to and had researched.

Uh huh. Yeah, sure.

Letting the bits of torn paper fall to the ground and brushing some from his knees, Sam pulled out another piece of paper. Instead of shredding this one, he took a pen and began writing.

Wraiths don't kidnap, they kill by claiming souls.

_That amulet protects the soul_.

Possibly the wraiths couldn't claim Dean's soul, so they claimed Dean…and took him where?

_I didn't let go_. Sam hadn't let go of Dean, not in the months before Dean died and he'd been told to over and over by Dean. Not in the hours and days following Dean's death, in every way he'd clung to Dean, kept him alive and vibrant in his mind. Dean had come back from Hell and at least part of the reason why was because Sam hadn't let go, had hung on to every memory of Dean so tightly they consumed him.

Tapping his pen on the table, he stared at the few words on the page. "If I were a wraith where would I take an irritable, noisy, sarcastic, constantly hungry hunter that could end me?" Sam bit his lip. "An all-you-can-eat, twenty-four hour prison with heavy duty sedatives."

Now he was getting punchy.

Wraiths came for vengeance. Emily wanted vengeance. So did Sam. The wraiths came because it was January 24, Dean's birthday, and Sam wanted vengeance because Dean died on Sam's birthday. It was like watching some wheel of words spin around inside his head. Why on Dean's birthday? Why not on Sam's, other than the fact they were here on Dean's? Sam didn't want vengeance from Dean but for him.

Sam threw the pen across the room, watching it spiral end over end before hitting the wall and sliding down. "This is going nowhere." He glanced down at one of the pages he'd been reading on wraiths.

_The wraith is a being of power, controlled by a greater spirit to do the creature's will. _

Greater spirit? What greater spirit? He only had about eight billion to pick from. Demons were the first beings that came to mind but were they a greater, more powerful creature than a wraith? He could only guess; until he found the wraith and Dean it was likely Sam would have no way of finding out and tracking down whatever controlled the wraith, if that information was even accurate. He'd learned long ago to take a lot of this information, especially the older, myth type information with a healthy grain of salt.

Sam snickered to himself, pun intended.

_They are shadows, floating amongst our realm with no purpose but that of their masters. _

Who was the master of this wraith?

_They feed on humans, their emotions and their own strength, without these they would cease to exist. They are said to be ghostly figures with long, sharp fingers. Wraiths are considered rare among the spirit realm. They consist of pure revenge; yet not all wraiths will be truly vengeful, in that some are merely enraged to the extent of destroying anything they encounter._

That wasn't especially helpful. How was he to know which kind of wraiths these were? He decided that until he had proof otherwise he was going with the vengeful-controlled-by-something-else sort of wraith.

However you looked at it, they were creepy, even on Sam's scale of creepy.

Everything brought him back to vengeance, revenge. His, Emily's and somehow they were connected.

January 24, 1979, Emily's thirtieth birthday. The day Dean was born. Dean vanished on January 24, 2009, his thirtieth birthday.

"That's it!" Sam's hand hit the table so hard his palm stung and the sound made him jump. Find Emily and he'd find Dean. Sam was positive. It had to be her controlling the wraiths, since Sam hadn't been any less vengeful prior to coming here. Emily was the only new thing in that equation.

Purpose renewed, Sam set about finding one Emily Swartz.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean wasn't going to have to worry about finding a way out of the room, anymore pacing and he'd wear a hole in the floor. He stopped and looked down. "Eh, maybe not a bad idea." Digging one heel into the carpet, Dean started checking the floor for weak spots. After a minute, he stopped and glanced cautiously around.

No Trickster.

Not necessarily a good thing. No Trickster with him meant the sadistic bastard was probably with Sam. That thought sent spears of cold shuddering along Dean's spine and through his intestines. Whether or not Sam suspected it was the Trickster with him and not his brother, Dean didn't know, but he was sure by now Sam at least knew something was wrong. The memory of how desperate Dean had been when Sam vanished, taken by Meg, then how immeasurably relieved and happy he'd been when Sam called telling Dean where he was assaulted him. Dean's stomach still churned and his heart still fluttered erratically remembering the drive and then jogging down the hall, checking each door for the correct number.

He'd been so paralyzed with fear of what might have happened to his brother that when he burst through the door and saw Sam sitting there, shirt covered in blood his only thoughts were Sam was alive, everything else was inconsequential and a minor annoyance as far as he was concerned. There'd been so many signs, so many things right under his nose that should have tipped him off that there was something wrong with Sam.

Dean had ignored those signs simply because he'd been separated from Sam long enough that he didn't care about anything but getting his brother back. He'd had no idea what happened to Sam, if he was alive or dead and the first few days were spent in a frantic search of hospitals and morgues in the area. He'd never questioned Sam's story of going out for burgers and not remembering much after that, which should have been a glowing neon sign that something was very wrong with his brother.

His thoughts and memories were swept away when the next sensation came not from within but surrounded him like water over a drowning man. Dean was literally awash in a turbulent sea of confusion and frustration. His inability to rationalize constructive thoughts assaulted him without warning. It was if he'd been plugged into Sam's jumbled psyche, able to feel and see what Sam did. Dean understood exactly how Sam was feeling since he'd felt the same way a few years ago when Meg hijacked Sam.

Losing track of time—there was nothing in this room by which to judge it and his watch didn't work—he had no idea how long he'd been trapped. However, he had the distinct impression enough time had passed that Sam was getting frantic to find him. Which was going to lead to the exact same thing it'd done to Dean. Sam was going to overlook the obvious.

Standing in the middle of the room, it took Dean a few seconds to realize he was rocking back and forth on his heels ever so slightly with his fingers dug into his hair. Just as he'd seen Sam do so many times a few short weeks ago. One image after another tumbled around inside his head, each refusing to stop long enough for him to grasp.

Dean was now convinced Sam knew he was gone and was on a frenzied hunt, tearing up the town looking for Dean.

Emotions boiled through him but, like the thoughts and ideas ricocheting around his head, none took hold long enough for Dean to process properly. Without preamble or warning, a name popped into his head. _Emily_. Emily wanted vengeance because someone she loved died on her birthday. Sam wanted the same. Find Emily and make…it…stop.

Dean sucked in a deep breath, jerked his hand from his head and staggered back until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he collapsed onto it unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling.

Sam was already wheeling out of control, charging after a sixty-year-old woman with nothing but hate and desperation guiding him. Dean felt the pressure against his feet as Sam's pounded over pavement towards the Impala.

The world above him whited out and simultaneously Dean was hit with a hard, painful force as something tried to cut him off from Sam. He struggled to his side, trying and failing to roll to a sitting position. He barely had time to press his fingers to his forehead when blinding, paralyzing pain hit and dropped him off the edge into a bleak void of white.

_Dean scuffed the toe of his worn sneaker along the sidewalk, kicking stones ahead as he went. His Dad had given him twenty dollars to buy food for himself and Sam while they stayed here. He knew Sam very much wanted to have some sort of birthday party for him, and honestly the only reason Dean cared was because Sam did. His life had been a string of forgotten birthdays and Christmases with just himself and Sam; Winchesters didn't do holidays. There was more at stake._

_There was always more at stake._

_In reality, Dean would have loved some kind of birthday party with his brother and Dad, even with just his brother, but he was a good little soldier. When his father laid one large hand on his shoulder and said, "You do understand, son, right?" Dean had simply nodded. Dad was a hero, and heroes were never wrong. Sam was the one disappointed, someday he'd understand too. _

_Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he pushed his way through the door into the local grocery store. Maybe he didn't want Sam to have to understand. Would having three cupcakes with a candle in one for Dean end the world?_

_Dean thought not._

_He wandered the aisles grabbing food they could eat in the motel. When he came to the row of cookies and cupcakes, Dean stopped. He stood and stared at the cupcakes in their various little plastic containers. His hand moved all by itself, grabbing two, the chocolate kind with a little white squiggly line on top and the kind with coconut and jelly in the middle. A few feet farther down were hooks with plain cream-colored candles, the kind people bought for power outages. _

_Dean shrugged and grabbed a few of those. A candle stuck in a cupcake became a birthday candle. That was his story and he was sticking to it. If Sam wanted to give him a birthday party, Sam was going to get to give him one._

_After paying for his purchases, a bag clutched in each hand he started back to the motel. He hadn't gone very far when he realized it seemed darker near him than it did even three feet from him. There was no drop in temperature yet the hair at the back of his neck bristled. Picking up the pace, a quick glance behind him confirmed it; the air behind him was a few shades darker than the air in front of him._

_White-knuckling the bags, he lengthened his stride. When the space around him became even darker, Dean started to run_.

* * *

Sam drove, fingers tapping the wheel and barely keeping to the speed limit to where Emily's family home had once stood. Now it was a park with an adjoining Quick-Mart. He spent the better part of an hour prowling said Quick-Mart, checking every inch he could see for some clue that would lead him to Dean. He didn't even know what he was looking for. The fact he had been in the store that long before the store clerk kicked him out was amazing. In all honesty, Sam would have kicked out the six-and-a-half foot guy poking under shelves and muttering obscenities too, and in a lot less time than an hour.

Emily had died nearly ten years ago. Questioning the clerk as to where she might be buried was useless, he claimed not to know. Even Sam slamming both hands onto the counter and snarling at him didn't jar the man's memory. What it did do was cause his eyes to widen and his hand to drop to his side, no doubt reaching for a silent alarm under the counter.

Okay, really, why would the store clerk even know? Sam conceded that fact and berated his own stupidity at scaring the man. He left the store, retreating to the safety and comfort of his only true home, the Impala. A home that felt cold and empty without his brother.

Stomach churning, Sam forced away thoughts of hunger or the headache that crept up his neck forming a dull ache at the back of his skull. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down with cold coffee which probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had.

He should stop and eat, get some water to drink, but he couldn't. There was no time. He had to find Dean before the wraiths could do what they came to do and claim his brother's soul. Everything he did came back to the thought he had no idea how much time he had before Dean was lost forever, only how much time had passed, how much time was already lost. Sam felt closed in, his heart wouldn't beat correctly, and his breathing stuttered more than not. Working out details and patterns was more of a chore and more taxing than it should have been or would have been normally. He felt as if his mind was on constant skitter mode and he was scrambling to catch up with it.

Shoving the key into the door lock, Sam stumbled into the motel room and told himself being off balance was simply the change from bright daylight to darker motel room. He convinced himself the way the room didn't quite keep up with him was because he sat down at the table too fast.

He'd find out where Emily was buried. Only then could he take a minute to grab some food and get something to drink since he'd wait until later that night to dig her up. Find Emily and make her stop. Find Emily and find Dean.

Dean would come back.

The room shifted from colors to shades of gray that oozed into black and white. As Sam started a slow slide from his chair, everything went white and the pain from hitting the floor barely registered.

_Sam watched the shadows of the room lengthen and deepen as the light outside the window dimmed. The sun was setting, night was coming. He'd been alone for hours. Dean should have come back by now. Dad left him, and Dean hadn't come back. Sam bit his lip to stop the tears, he was five, a big boy now. There was no reason he couldn't wait a few hours by himself until Dean came back._

_Dean never left him alone at night. Most times, Dean didn't want to leave him alone at all, but sometimes Dad made Dean do special chores, training he called it and Sam had to wait by himself. He didn't like waiting by himself, but he saw every time by the look on Dean's face, in Dean's eyes, that Dean liked it less. In fact, Sam was pretty sure Dean hated leaving Sam by himself in the motel rooms._

_Sam jerked and snapped his body upright. He'd started falling asleep sitting up. He looked around the room, blurry vision making it hard to focus. The shadows were everywhere, crawling over the room and Sam's feet. Bending his knees, Sam pulled his feet onto the bed and wrapped both arms around his knees. Turning his head so his cheek rested against his knee, Sam watched the door._

"_Dean, come back," he whispered and ignored how the patch of jeans under his cheek had an ever growing wet spot_.

Sam's eyes snapped open and he gasped, immediately wishing he hadn't. His lips were stuck to the filthy carpeting his face was pressed against. Pulling his arms under him and pushing his hands flat on the floor, Sam eased up on shaking arms.

Dean's tenth birthday. Every detail of it came rushing back at Sam. He'd been left, for the first time ever, alone all night. When Dean showed up the next morning, he claimed he'd gotten lost on the way back to the motel. It was the reason Dean had become lost that Sam didn't believe, never had. Even as a small child, Dean was fearless and had a sense of direction that was downright scary. Dean didn't get lost. Ever. Period. End of story.

What did Dean claiming to be lost then have to do with him being gone now?

Sam eased himself straighter and sagged back against the bed, pulling a few deep breaths into his lungs.

Dean would never leave him willingly, that's what. If they split up for a few hours, Dean would call with updates on their hunt or his search for a decent burger.

Even now, Dean rarely left Sam alone at night. As a child, it was something Dean never did unless forced away by their father—the look in Dean's eyes as he'd leave haunted Sam to this day. Dean didn't even trust John to be watchful enough. Now that they were all grown up, Dean would call while with his flavor of the moment under the pretense of bragging, but Sam knew what it was…_I'm fine. So are you…_sometimes he'd call to say his girl had a friend for Sam. Once in a while Sam took him up on that offer but not often. He knew those calls were made for no other reason than Dean wanted him to have some fun too and more to the point, to check in with Sam.

Not that Sam didn't do the same thing. It was a rare day they went more than a few hours without checking in with each other if separated by a hunt or just each off on their own for a bit to unwind. Now it'd been days since he'd last heard his brother's deep voice, and he missed it terribly. He missed Dean's dumb jokes and how he seemed to take up every bit of whatever room in which he stood. He missed the ever constant in his life that was Dean's presence. Sam missed it, wasn't sure how to be himself without it, and wanted it back to the point he'd do anything.

Bending his arms behind him, Sam rested his hands against the edge of the bed for a few more seconds before shoving to his feet. Moving to Dean's bed, he dug through his brother's duffel extracting a bag of chips. Dean always kept provisions. The small refrigerator was stocked with bottled water and cans of soda Sam had carted in from the car when they'd arrived.

He sat on the floor in front of the refrigerator munching chips while he drank first a bottle of water then a can of Coke. His head cleared and the world sharpened back into focus.

Twenty four or more hours without food or water was wearing on him. He knew better, this wasn't helping. He wanted to kick the shit out of himself. Dean would kick his ass _hard_ for such stupidity and carelessness. This was a mistake Sam shouldn't have made, it was a rookie move, and he knew it was getting him nowhere.

Glancing out the window, he wondered how much time had gone by since he'd returned to their room. By the way the light was dimming and the room was filling with shadows cast from chairs and beds, he figured it must have been a few hours at least. Lumbering to his feet, Sam grabbed the room key and car keys and headed to the bar down the street for some real food. He had a good five or six hours, at least, to find the cemetery and dig the bitch who'd taken his brother out of the ground.

Sam settled at a table in the back of the bar. He had ordered his food and was waiting for his laptop to boot. At least the place had Wi-Fi, which meant he could have a better meal than the fast food places that normally provided him with free internet offered. He stuck to drinking soda, not beer, and when his meal arrived, he discovered he was indeed very hungry. The food was simple, but very tasty and there was a lot of it. By the time he was finished his head was clearer, his stomach was far happier, his nerves not nearly as jumpy and most importantly he'd completed his search for Emily's burial site.

There were only two choices of cemeteries in the area, and she was in the larger of the two. Sam was relieved her family's burial plots were here and not some other part of the country.

The sliver of a moon was high and the roads fairly well deserted when Sam pulled the Impala out of the motel parking lot with a destination firm in his mind, resolve firm in his heart.

Just outside the cemetery entrance, Sam pulled the car off the road and cut the engine. Silently he retrieved weapons, a shovel, a canister of kerosene, and salt from the trunk. Shovel slung over one shoulder, gun tucked behind his back and more supplies gripped in his other hand; Sam trudged across the cemetery to his meeting with Emily Swartz.

* * *

Dean peeled himself off the floor, ignoring the specks of dirt and small things that crawled through the carpet weave. Damn Trickster could have at least put him up somewhere nicer than this dump.

Events from his first trip through the town of Flickerston and his tenth birthday were still clear in his mind. Pictures from that time rolled through his head as if they'd occurred yesterday, not twenty years prior. He'd run down the street and veered off into the woods thinking it was a short cut, in fact was sure it was. Somehow he'd ended up wandering the woods all night, sure every shadow behind every tree was after him. That hadn't frightened him nearly as much as the thought he'd left his tiny, five-year-old brother alone and unprotected in a motel room not much better than this one.

When he'd gotten back the next morning, Sam had wrapped both arms around his middle and refused to let go for hours. It was days before the little boy could be shaken from Dean's side, not that Dean made much of an effort to get free.

Dean would be quite happy to have Sam latched to his side right now. Not sure what the Trickster wanted exactly, Dean knew one thing with absolute certainty. It couldn't be good.

_He's got something, something very special. Sammy's a special boy. I like special boys_.

The Trickster's words slammed through Dean making him shiver.

Everything was coming to him now. At first it'd been bits and tattered pieces of emotion and a flash of scenery which would change without warning to some other scene. Dean had no idea if they were actual sequences or jumbled in time. They were almost like dream sequences. With each passing hour, the sensations and images cleared and lengthened, came in more detail and with more clarity. Whether it was real or the Trickster's doing, Dean had no clue. It didn't matter. He was being given a very detailed and intense show of what Sam was doing and how he was doing it.

And Sam wasn't doing very well.

For a bit it seemed Sam had gotten a better grip on things, stabilized, and calmed enough to think more rationally. Now he was hell-bent on finding the wraiths he was sure were responsible for Dean's disappearance, sure they wanted to claim Dean's soul. He was charging forward without a real plan or much rational thought. Sam wasn't seeing beyond the fact he thought he'd seen a wraith. He wasn't looking for anything else. It was a mistake Sam shouldn't be making and wouldn't have if it weren't for the fact he wasn't so much searching for wraiths as he was for Dean.

The Trickster wanted Sam's soul, Dean was just as sure.

Staggering to the bathroom, Dean splashed cold water on his face and stuck his head under the faucet, gulping down huge mouthfuls before letting the water run over his head. Living in his own head as well as Sam's was disorienting and taxing to say the least. It was only going to get worse; Dean knew this for a fact.

Sam was frantic and digging furiously…_never going to last that way, Sammy, pace yourself_…even in the chill January air, Sam was panting, sweat pouring off him. Dean shivered and hugged his arms closer to his body as Sam stubbornly refused to stop and rest or put on something warmer. The thin T-shirt covering him was soaked through. Sam was covered with mud and bits of grass, oblivious to the cold surrounding him or starting to leech into him, making him shiver and cough every few minutes.

"Maybe it's time little baby brother had his big brother back." The Trickster appeared in the mirror long enough to laugh, wagging one finger at Dean.

* * *

Sam dropped to his knees and clawed the last bits of dirt away from the grave. Blood oozed from the dried and cracked skin covering his fingers. Shovelful after shovelful of heavy, damp dirt and sod were thrown up and away from the coffin to scatter a haphazard pattern on the ground surrounding the grave. His arms and back ached from the sheer stress of his self-imposed labor. He ignored how the muscles along his shoulders and up his neck stiffened and protested with every sweep of the shovel. Up on his feet a minute later, Sam jumped far enough out of the grave to grab a crowbar.

Anger and frustration built to a boiling point and bubbled over. The crowbar was driven down again and again onto the coffin top. "Bitch! You _BITCH_!" His scream split the night air as did the echoes of the crowbar against the coffin top. "Give him back! You can't have him!"

Not taking the time to brush away the hair falling over his face, Sam wound up and swung over and over. He ignored the pounding in his ears and head, ignored how every muscle burned and screamed for relief, and ignored how his lungs ached to fill. The words stopped, his shouts escalated then dropped to harsh, uneven grunts forced from his chest with every blow he connected with the coffin. After what seemed forever, the crowbar broke through. Tossing it to the side, Sam ripped at the wood, tearing it away in large chunks and further shredding his hands. Long, shallow, jagged cuts covered his palms. Streaks of his own blood smeared the coffin in a bizarre pattern.

With arms shaky from exhaustion he spread salt was generously over the contents of the coffin. Sam ignored how some of the fine particles worked their way into the damaged skin of his hands, earning nothing more than his lower lip being bitten. Next he splashed on kerosene until the entire inside of the coffin and Emily's body was soaked. Scrambling out of the grave, Sam slowly inched away. Pulling ragged breaths into his lungs, he ignored how his body throbbed with hurt, his head spun and the scent of kerosene burned the inside of his nose and mingled with the acidy taste bubbling at the back of his throat.

Sam pulled a piece of paper and book of matches from one pocket. He literally spat the words of the incantation that would release her anger and send her spirit and soul to wherever it was meant to go. Words tumbled from his mouth without care for their meaning as he shouted them in a vicious monotone. For a minute or two nothing happened and Sam's heart sank, maybe he'd gotten it wrong, recited the incorrect incantation.

A low rumble started somewhere underneath the body. Sam didn't have much time to think about what that might mean before the entire grave, body, coffin and all erupted into a massive glowing orange and red fireball. The compact flames hovered for a few seconds like a giant, flaming beach ball. Sam gulped in a quick breath. As the thought formed in his brain that maybe he should get as far away as possible from the grave and its blazing sphere which was no doubt about to combust, it erupted outward in a giant flash of light and exploding sound that flung him back a few yards. He landed hard on his ass as he was tossed backward with enough force to crack his head. Shocks of pain rocketed up and down his spine. A vibrant constellation of stars detonated over his eyes, blinding him for a few seconds.

The world cleared and came back to him in the form of the sound of pounding feet heading in his direction. Normally Sam would have been up and moving, ready to either take on, or run from, whatever was coming at him.

Not tonight.

Not those footsteps.

Those footsteps he knew.

It had worked. Sam relaxed onto the cold ground and let his body snarl and snap with all the cuts and aches he'd inflicted upon himself. It was as if a suffocating weight simply disappeared from his chest. He could _breathe_ again. He'd done it. Sam cranked his head back and let the tears pricking at his eyes drop across his cheeks when he heard his brother's voice shouting, "SAM!"


	5. Chapter 5

"Where the _HELL_ have you been?" Dean's footsteps stormed closer. His face was red, arms waving.

"Me?" Sam rolled to his knees, or rather tried. He got about halfway before slumping back down. Bracing one shaking arm against the ground, and locking his elbow to keep upright, he looked up, silently pleading for some assistance.

Dean shook his head, closed the distance between them and grabbed Sam's arm, hauling him roughly to his feet. Sam managed to croak out, "Thanks."

"Yeah, whatever. You bolted out of the motel, jumped in the car, and took off on me. I've been chasing you down for two days. You…took…_my_…car." The final words were growled out and hit Sam like acid to his face. As much as Dean pretended to worry about and care more for the Impala than he did his brother, Sam knew that was nothing more than bluster. At least he'd known it until now. It seemed the time had come when Sam rated beneath the ton of metal Dean was so freaking proud of.

Breath catching in his chest for a few beats, Sam looked away, brushing one hand over his eyes hoping Dean didn't see moisture accumulating there. "You've been gone for two days." His voice sounded odd and small, he hated how it cracked apart. Lurching forward, Sam had to know Dean was real and unharmed despite Dean's apparent lack of concern for Sam. Grabbing his brother's shoulders, Sam gave him a shake then let one hand rest against Dean's neck, peering closely at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Dean smacked Sam's hands away and took a few steps back. No matter how much Sam wanted to follow, Dean's expression warned him off.

"There were wraiths, Dean, I saw them. I saw one in the bakery and then I saw one in front of our motel room, it went right through the door. When I got there, you were brushing your teeth and said there couldn't be wraiths here, but there are. The lights went out, and you were gone." The words simply tumbled out of Sam's mouth, he didn't care how much sense it made. He had to tell Dean what he'd seen, make him understand and believe.

"Uh huh." Dean's weight shifted to one hip, he crossed his arms over his chest, eyes skimming over the destroyed grave, the wreckage of the coffin and the burnt body inside. Pulling one hand loose and waving it halfheartedly, Dean asked, "How did you do that?"

Sam stared at him for a few seconds then twisted his torso enough he could see the ruined grave. "Do what? Burn a body? Dean, you taught me how to do that."

"Not like _that_ I didn't." Dean picked up the shovel and can of kerosene, stepping away from the grave. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, "Mind sharing with me where you left the car?"

Wordlessly, Sam gathered the other supplies and pointed to a side road through the cemetery. It was a short walk down the dirt road, Sam scuffed his toe in the loose dirt every few steps and kept his eyes to the ground. The few times he drew in a deep breath and tried to say something Dean shot him a nasty glare, rebuffing any of Sam's attempts at questions. It was clear, Dean was certain it had been Sam who'd vanished and convincing him otherwise was impossible and futile.

Sam's sheer joy at having his brother back had almost immediately been blocked out and replaced by a feeling of apprehension bordering on fear. Dean's reaction didn't bring him any comfort, simply confusion and fear. Sam hadn't disappeared, he hadn't. It'd been Dean who'd been gone.

A few minutes later when they were standing beside the car, Dean held out one hand and snorted irritably when Sam dumped the keys in his palm. Feeling like a child being punished and not knowing why, Sam waited while Dean opened the trunk. They stowed the supplies and Sam walked quietly to stand near the passenger side door. Dean stalked toward the car and for a few heart-stopping seconds, Sam thought he was going to get in and drive away alone. He veered off, and silently unlocked the door for Sam, not making eye contact.

After Dean was settled behind the wheel, he slid the key into the ignition but did not turn it. His gaze slipped to Sam, and it was hard, teetering on angry. "You gonna tell me or not?"

Sam shrugged, "What? I poured salt and kerosene over it and threw a few matches on top. Like we've done hundreds of times."

"Not like that we haven't. I saw what happened, what you did. I saw how that whole thing practically exploded, never mind it _did_ explode. Blew up. Kaa-_baam_. The best part, Sammy, did you think I didn't notice you threw in the salt, the kerosene but _not_ the matches? You been practicing behind my back?"

"What? No, Dean, no—nothing you and I haven't worked on together, I swear." Sam took a deep breath and plunged ahead. Changing the subject on his irritable brother was likely going to cause some nasty words between them, but he had to get this out. "Dean, wraiths, real wraiths. There was a suicide here, in this town _on your birthday_, the day you were born! That woman whose body I burned was engaged to a man who came to a party her parents threw for _her_ thirtieth birthday, same day as yours—"

"Yeah, I got that part already, Sam." Dean turned the key and cranked over the engine. His voice wasn't nearly as harsh or rough as a few minutes before.

"So, I saw a wraith near our room and when I got there, it wasn't inside and you were. The lights went out and when I turned them back on, you were gone." Sam hated how his voice rose and cracked over the word gone.

As Dean turned the car onto the road, he slipped a look at Sam that Sam swore was something close to disbelief. "What does that have to do with exploding a corpse?"

If Sam didn't know better, he'd think Dean didn't approve. Sighing, rubbing his forehead with one hand, Sam tried to calm himself enough to explain. "The corpse's name was Emily. She was engaged to a guy named Jimmy who went to her birthday party and blew his brains out over the cake."

Dean winced and made a funny face but didn't say anything.

"Emily," Sam continued, "was hurt and angry. Very angry. I can relate. A part of her wanted retribution, but the man who'd hurt her so much was dead. I think the wraiths came because of her. She died about ten years ago. So I figured I had to get her spirit to let go of her hate and move on. I did an incantation and then burned her bones, _same way as we've burned lots of bones_."

"So, you think I was taken away by wraiths because this chick's boyfriend offed himself on her birthday, which was the day I was born?"

"You _were_ gone," Sam snapped out.

Dean shrugged and changed lanes. "Okay, I was gone. Now I'm back. I still want to know why the body exploded _without the use of anything to ignite it_?"

"I don't know," Sam confessed softly.

"There's a lot you don't know, isn't there? Especially about this little talent of yours."

Sam went cold and still, blinking at Dean. It felt as if the entire weight of the world crushed down on him and squeezed in from all sides. Dean obviously didn't believe him and now didn't trust him? Clamping his mouth shut, Sam turned away to stare out the window. "Where are we going? This isn't the way back to the motel."

"Nope, it's not." Dean guided the car off the main road and onto a dirt road. Once out of sight, hidden by thick trees from the main road, he parked the car and turned off the engine. Stretching and yawing, he grinned over at Sam. "It's great day. I want to go blow something up. Then we'll see about tracking down your wraiths."

Sam pushed out of the car and followed Dean to a clearing a few yards away. "Not my wraiths," he muttered.

The brutal sessions John Winchester put him through to practice hand-to-hand and weapons use were nothing compared to Dean deciding it was time for Sam to practice using his power. An hour later, none of the piles of wood Dean accumulated had exploded, they hadn't even smoked. Neither had the two empty bottles filled with kerosene and salt, nor had the pile of leaves. In fact, everything was still exactly as Dean set them out.

Dean's scowl vanished for a few minutes when he bagged a squirrel and threw that on the pile of leaves. Sam couldn't explode those either. The scowl was back on Dean's face and working overtime after that. He stomped back to the Impala, leaving the bottles, sticks, leaves, and dead squirrel where they were. Sam started scattering everything but the blaring of the horn made him stop and trudge back to the car.

"Dean—"

"We're not done. I'm getting to the bottom of this one way or the other."

Sam sighed and gave up. His head hurt and his stomach was twisted in knots. He felt worse than when Dean had disappeared and reminded himself yet again it _had_ been Dean that vanished, Sam had _not_ taken off. Sliding down farther in the seat, Sam leaned his head back and shut his eyes, trying to block out the world for just ten minutes.

_The room was getting bigger, that's all there was to it, Sam decided. Or maybe he was getting smaller. Maybe he'd shrink down to nothing. It was completely dark outside now and Dean still hadn't returned. Wiping tears from his eyes with one shoulder he stared resolutely at the door, willing Dean to come bursting in and make fun of him for being a baby._

_Sam didn't care. Dean could make all the fun of him he wanted if he'd just come back._

_Maybe Dean had left him, snuck off to be with Dad, wherever Dad went all the time. Or maybe Dean found someone he liked better, a friend maybe, someone his age to play with and had forgotten about Sam alone in the motel room._

"_Dean wouldn't do that," Sam mumbled to his knees. Dean never left him, was always holding his hand or making sure Sam went to bed on time._

_Sam was alone and frightened. He'd never been left alone all night before. Worse came the thought something had happened to keep Dean from coming back. Something awful like Dean was hit by a car, or one of the many strangers Sam saw daily and was never permitted by Dean to talk to had taken his brother._

_Lowering his head to hide his eyes against his knees Sam cried even harder. His entire body shook. He wanted Dean to come back and chanted as though his voice could make that happen, "Dean, come back, come back_."

"Sam!" Dean's hand was rough on his arm, shaking furiously.

Jerking straight, Sam looked around, confused for a minute as to where he was. The car had stopped; they were back at their motel.

"You fell asleep. You didn't hear a thing I said, did you? Sam, you gotta pay attention."

"I'm—I—I'm sorry." The words stuttered out, making Sam feel like the five-year-old child he'd been in his dream. "I have a headache."

"You always have a damn headache, take some pain killers and focus." Without waiting for Sam, Dean shoved out of the car, slammed the door and strode to their room. Light filtered out into the parking lot a minute later through the door left standing wide open.

Glaring for a minute before he climbed out of the car, Sam slowly followed his brother inside and softly shut the door behind him.

Sunrise came far sooner than Sam remembered it appearing on previous mornings. Barely permitted a few hours of sleep and a meager breakfast that he managed to grab from the motel dining room when the complimentary breakfast was laid out, Sam was driven back to the clearing in the woods where they'd spent part of the day before. Dean reassembled the 'targets' complete with dead squirrel and stood back, arms crossed over his chest.

"C'mon, I saw you do it yesterday, now do to that damn squirrel what you did to that corpse," Dean snapped. He snatched the half-eaten apple from Sam's hands.

"Hey! I'm hungry."

"You're also taller than a Sequoia, quit the whining, it's hurting my ears." Stepping forward, nearly nose-to-nose with Sam, Dean shoved him. "Do it. Now!"

"I can't! I didn't _do_ anything to that woman's body."

"Yes…" another hard shove to his shoulders forcing Sam back a step, "you…did," Dean barked.

Sidestepping away from Dean, Sam growled out, "Dean, stop."

Dean moved right back, crowding into Sam's space and landing another harsh hit to Sam's shoulders with both palms. Fists bunching at his sides, Sam took a deep breath and fought back the pressure building in his chest. "What's with you, man? Two weeks ago you were all about waiting and finding out what we could about this…this…and now you want to blow up a damn squirrel?!"

"Yes," Dean shouted, this time hitting Sam's shoulders hard enough that he stumbled back, catching himself right before he landed on his ass in the dirt. "Stop it!" Sam thundered.

Dean took another step and was about to land another shove on Sam. This time the pressure building inside his chest was impossible to hold back. It burst out and Sam had no choice but to push back.

* * *

It hit Dean like the proverbial brick wall crashing down from on high. Only the brick wall might have been easier to deflect and certainly less painful. One minute he was standing by the door in his endless pursuit to find a way out and the next heat and pain exploded out of him and surrounded him.

Screaming, Dean's knees evaporated, and he hit the floor, arms wrapped around his middle in an effort to stop the pain.

Fire and heat, searing through his chest in giant waves circled his heart and shot his lungs full of scorching air. Dean was left panting desperately, trying to get to his feet and to the bathroom for water to dowse the flames lapping away at his insides.

He more fell into the bathroom than walked into it, turned on the faucet and stuck his head underneath. Gulping water down and spitting it back out again, Dean was finally able to stand straight even if the room did spin a bit out of control. He leaned against the doorway for a few seconds before staggering to the bed.

Bastard. Bastard Trickster. The bastard was doing to Sam exactly what Meg had once done to Dean. The Trickster was using the same tactic. Sam had been made frantic and desperate to find a lost brother. Then the Trickster gave Sam back what he wanted. It played against Sam's panic and desperation so it could sit back and watch the show. The performance was probably exactly as it'd expected. Sam was too afraid Dean had been lost forever, so when '_Dean_' reappeared Sam didn't think much beyond his relief his brother was back safe and whole.

Problem was _that_ 'Dean' wasn't Sam's brother. Right now Sam couldn't see beyond 'Dean was back' to care about the differences or even take much notice of them.

"He's odd." The Trickster leaned casually against the wall. "How do you even put up with all that carrying on about wraiths and things that just aren't there? I'm not even going to mention that insane babbling every time the boy drops off to sleep. Oh, I just did, didn't I?" It shrugged. "No matter, it'll keep him busy while I figure out all that wonderful power he's got. Using it with two people just won't work. You get that, right? You can't be part of this power. Too many checks and balances spoil the fun. Sam doesn't need a helper getting in the way. Once he realizes his potential, comes to full power, the good times are going to roll and keep on rolling."

Slowly raising his head, Dean focused on it standing before him. "I…am going…to end you." He wiped away the spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand.

"Eh, maybe. But not today, Dean." With that the Trickster was gone.

What wasn't gone was what Dean felt every time Sam used his power. He lived through what Sam was forced to do, day after day, relentlessly pushed by the Trickster. Sam was being deceived and driven. Dean was a helpless bystander, experiencing what Sam felt, but unable to stop it or protect his brother.

The first day it was fire and destruction. Dean watched as Sam was duped into thinking he'd made a salted body explode, not merely burn. Waves of searing heat crashed over and around Dean, burning through him, driving him again and again into unconsciousness, only to reawaken to relive it over. Sam was being driven to cause fire, ignite garbage cans, dead rodents, debris and felled trees near the outskirts of town. Each time Sam's power spiked, Dean's energy drained and his body reacted violently and painfully.

All so the Trickster could get some laughs and blow something up.

Every time Sam saw a wraith, Dean lived that, too. He lived with the knowledge the brother Sam thought was with him pushed and drove him to use more of his power yet pushed Sam away by refusing to see the threat to the town Sam saw.

* * *

"Get up."

Sam twisted away from the finger poking his side. "Do that again, Dean, and I'll knock you out." He buried his face further into the pillow.

"Ha! No way you can do that to me. Now get up. You've slept long enough. We have work to do."

"Don't you mean _I_ have work to do?" Sam snapped. "All you want me to do is practice this power. Aren't you going a bit overboard?"

"Up." Dean grabbed his arm and yanked until Sam was sitting.

Wiping one hand over his face then through his hair, Sam sighed and yawned. He was exhausted. They'd been out until the wee hours the night before. His eyes felt like they were being rubbed with sandpaper every time he blinked. His chest had a constant low level ache, Sam was beginning to hope he'd have a heart attack and drop dead. The lead that was his arms and legs didn't want to cooperate or move with their normal fluidity.

Dean spent hours coaxing Sam into trying more and more. When coaxing turned to demanding and threatening, Sam begged him to go to a bar, find a girl, get laid and leave him alone for a while. Move this, blow up that. It was starting to feel as if Sam was good for nothing other than destruction. Sam had fallen into bed hours ago, and now it seemed as if he'd slept no more than a few minutes. The power was building, rumbling beneath the surface of his consciousness like some terrible dragon waiting to burst out. Every move he made accentuated it and caused it to course through him like a rising tidal wave.

Sam didn't want this. It was frightening and worse, Dean was beginning to scare the crap out of him with his obsession for controlling and using Sam and this power.

"Get up!" Dean's boot hit the bed, hard.

Grumbling, Sam shoved off the bed and stumbled at the bathroom. "We need to figure out why the wraiths are still here." He splashed water over his face.

"You said it yourself, they want vengeance."

Bracing both hands against the sink, Sam let his head drop. His blood thumped steadily in his ears in time with the thumps against the inside of his skull. That was only slightly worse than how his stomach turned over and over on itself, acid burning up through his chest to pool at the back of his mouth. "So you believe me?" His voice sounded dull and sluggish even to his own ears. The reflection watching him in the mirror had dark splotches under his eyes, dull hair and his skin had a pallor just this side of sick.

"I don't think you're going to concentrate on what we really need to focus on until you get this wraith business out of your system, so let's get at it and I'll prove to you there aren't any wraiths."

"I saw them." Sam couldn't help shouting. "Never mind, I'm taking a shower." He slammed the door shut on whatever reply Dean made. Cranking on the water, he let it run hot before stripping down and getting under the spray.

Everything was so wrong. Dean had lost all interest in getting car parts and was fixated on Sam wanting to learn to use his power more. When had that happened? When had it happened that Dean didn't care about breakfast, lunch, and dinner? When had it happened that Dean stopped caring about Sam? He missed that Dean who always wanted to have breakfast in some hokey diner serving meals with odd names, he missed the guy who worshipped an old car and most importantly he missed the one who gave a crap about Sam.

Sam knew exactly when Dean turned into this frightening stranger. He'd left the bar the first night they'd been here and come back someone else. Dean _had_ been the one to disappear, despite his claim it was Sam who'd gone missing. Sam wasn't crazy, he wasn't…he _wasn't_. Jerking his hand back to his side, Sam realized he'd been pulling on his hair.

Something had happened to Dean, changed him into a man Sam neither knew nor liked. Sam needed to figure out what happened between Dean leaving the bar and coming back to their motel room. More importantly, he needed to figure out how to stop the path on which Dean had set them both.

Dean had driven Sam nearly into the ground making him try to move objects despite how Sam nearly collapsed on more than one occasion. The fires Sam had an easier time starting, but it made his head spin and something in his chest push against his ribs to get out. None of the food he ate, when Dean actually let him have the time to eat, had any taste. He couldn't even say for sure what he'd eaten in the few days since he'd gotten Dean back.

Sam let the water hit his face and hair, then turned and leaned back so his shoulders could get the warmth and comfort of the shower. He turned the water off, dried, and dressed feeling no cleaner or better than when he'd gone in.

Wordlessly, he trailed behind Dean to the car an hour later. Sam's complaint that he was hungry fell on deaf ears, they'd have time to stop and eat later, Dean declared.

"We need to go back to the cemetery Emily is buried in, and I need to go to a library for a while."

"Later. After you practice."

"You're starting to sound just like Dad," Sam growled out. "Not later. NOW! Stop the car."

"Sam—"

Sam really didn't want to hear anymore of his brother's bullshit. He didn't want this power, he didn't want to use it, and he sure didn't want to be in the Impala with Dean right this minute. He wanted out, he wanted out now, right the hell now! _Sam's a bomb_. Out…out…his fingers were tugging his hair, his body rocked back and forth without him even telling it to…out…want out…want out…_outoutoutOUT_!

The squealing of tires and blaring horns yanked Sam back to the present. The Impala was careening sideways toward the sidewalk. Dean was swearing, frantically spinning the steering wheel, and stomping on the brakes.

"I want out…I want out…I want out…" Sam muttered, his voice sounding like it was coming from somewhere other than his throat. He jumped and jerked away from the passenger door when all the windows of all the cars lining the street on his side started erupting outwards. The noise was deafening. Thousands of glistening shards rocketed into the air and rained down on the street.

_Sam's a bomb_.

People screamed, shouted, and ran from the shower of glass. The car slamming to a stop propelled Sam forward then back against the seat with enough force the air was knocked from his lungs. Dean's voice, angry and distant, assaulted him from across the car. He might as well have been shouting at Sam across the Grand Canyon for all the sound filtered through Sam's ears and into his head.

Fumbling with the door handle, Sam finally worked it open and tumbled from the car. Feet sliding and nearly losing purchase on the glass-covered street, Sam stumbled more than he ran. He had no idea where to go, only knew that his head was painful enough that his vision blurred. Coherent thoughts were a distant dream and his ears filled with a high-pitched whine that blocked out everything else. It surrounded him, filled him, this power or whatever it was. Sam felt as if it was going to blow him apart from the inside out. No matter how fast or far he ran he'd never get away from this.

_You don't ever run from me, Sammy_.

Once, a few short weeks ago, those words had been spoken with care and concern. Today they were shouted in rage at him. He couldn't do this, he simply couldn't. To flee, get as far away from this power thrumming through his veins and rumbling around inside his chest had become Sam's driving force.

Strong hands gripped his arms and fingers dug painfully into his flesh. His name was shouted at him, and he was being shaken so hard his head whipped back and forth. Peeling his eyes open, Sam met Dean's eyes and looked away at once.

"What in creation are you _doing_?"

Sam saw them then, shadows in the shape of people not there. None of the light cast to the ground was creating these shadows. Hitting Dean's shoulder and pointing back the way they'd come, Sam pointed. "We can't stop them."

"What are you talking about? Make some sense."

"Foretell death. Vengeance, want…" Sam's voice trailed off as a school bus full of children was forced to stop by the slivers of glass littering the street. At first it was surrounded by a darkening of the air slithering over the ground faster and faster, forming a whirlpool rising up all sides of the bus at once. Next it was assaulted by the silent killers. The thin, eerie wraiths sent their shadows ahead, each one creeping through a window of the bus, dozens of them. "No. NO. Dean we have to stop them. NO."

Breaking lose Sam ran at the bus. He had no idea what he'd do when he got there, but he couldn't let a bus full of children die, their souls whisked away by wraiths. The vague sound of footsteps behind him was his only warning.

_You don't ever run from me, Sammy_.

His legs were kicked out from under him mid-stride.

_Sam's a bomb_.

Momentum from his speed flung him forward. Arms out to his sides, Sam hit the ground hard on his chest and skidded a few feet before grinding to a stop. The world whirled in a swirl of colors. Sounds he couldn't identify banged around his head, deafening him. The pressure in his chest boiled loose through his pores and Sam sank into darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

The air around Dean shattered. Hard spikes of pain driving through his head brought him out of his stupor rather rudely. He took a look around at his surroundings, his situation hadn't changed much. Sitting at the table, sprawled haphazardly in the chair, elbow leaning on the table and his forehead held in his palm, he couldn't do much more than groan. His body sagged further. The room spun and twisted in sickening waves. Colors and textures elongated and streaked across his vision, melding together into one jumbled mess of nonsense.

He'd have vomited, but there was nothing left in his body to be expelled.

_Out…need to get out…need to get out NOW_.

Sam had needed to get out of the car, needed to get away from 'Dean'.

Dean needed to get the hell out of this room.

He wasn't entirely sure if it was Sam's need infringing on his mind or his own desperation and need translating into Sam's actions, but either way they were on the same page. That thought made him sit straighter. Pulling in some much needed deep breaths, he forced the pain away.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean inched out of the chair and began walking slowly back and forth across the room. There was a connection between him and Sam. He'd felt it before, many times, and not only recently either. For years he'd dismissed it as imagination or maybe some sort of parental instinct surrounding the child he'd raised to manhood. Even when Sam had gone to Stanford, Dean always had a feeling, a niggling itch far below the surface, a barely conscious thought…_Sam was okay_…_Sam was upset_…_Sam was sick_. The fact Sam's sporadic phone calls or postcards came when Dean was at his lowest and needed them the most never escaped him.

This connection didn't come from the Trickster, it was uniquely theirs. Maybe it was their upbringing and their need to always depend so much on one another at all costs. Or, maybe it was simply two brothers attuned to each other though blood and history and love. It didn't matter. The connection was there, had always been there, and it was strong and sure.

Dean was beginning to suspect that the Trickster had no idea the connection existed. The Trickster certainly hadn't created Dean's connection to Sam, nor would it be particularly excited by it. Dean's connection to Sam wasn't part of his current situation involving the Trickster. What it was, he realized with startling clarity, was his most powerful weapon right now.

They both wanted—_needed—_ to escape.

Sam's power was manifesting in Dean as well through the physical sensations whenever Sam used it. Or maybe it had always been there, always been part of them both laying dormant, waiting until the right time for it to surface.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.

Sam's power was a weapon. It was a weapon in need of a firing mechanism, a weapon in need of a shield, a weapon in need of a control.

"What is his hard-on with the damn wraiths?"

Dean jumped and turned to the voice behind him. "You should listen to Sam; if he says there are wraiths then there are."

"He's crazy, you know that? Plain…batshit…crazy…insane." The Trickster grinned and twirled one hand near his right temple. "I love it. I haven't had this much fun since…ah…" It sighed and licked its lips, "I can't remember when exactly. But that brother of yours? He's so delicious. All that power, and he's got no clue what to do with it. He talks to himself all the time, just mumbles crazy stuff, and you should see his face every time I, er _you_ push him some more." The Trickster _giggled_, rubbed both hands together and started to pace. "Oh, I know, maybe some of those power plants you humans like so much…make them look out of control. Now _that's_ gonna be fun. The chaos! You're a genius, Dean, thanks."

The lamp Dean sent sailing at the Trickster shattered against the wall, small pieces of it sliding down the wall to the carpet. A second later it reassembled and a voice laughed at him from somewhere in the ceiling, "Now, now, what _did_ I say about breaking the goods? I want my security deposit back you know."

* * *

"Are you done having your little hissy fit?"

Sam's eyes cracked open. Someone had him under the arms and was picking him up off the ground. Swaying on his feet, he looked around, bewildered. "The wraiths, those kids…" His voice, dry and unsteady, trailed off when the sound of crying children reached his ears.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, gave him a distasteful look and pointed to the bus, smugness and something else Sam couldn't place written all over his face.

"But th-they…they were there. I saw them, Dean. I swear I saw them crawling all over that bus. Wraiths were _right there_."

Snorting, Dean grabbed his arm and jerked roughly. Sam stumbled a few steps before he got his feet working well enough to follow along. He slammed to a stop when the bus driver's body was taken from the bus. Two people standing nearby, watching the scene dropped to the pavement. Sam could see even from this distance they were dead.

"Dean, look, they're there." Sam pointed. Admittedly, he was probably the only one seeing the wraiths and that actuality in itself was a bit odd. Why him? But the fact Dean refused to believe him, or even listen to him, left Sam numb, bewildered and devastated.

"Stow it, Sam, we've got better things to do."

"No." He jerked free of his brother's grip and landed his hands on Dean's shoulders, turning him and forcing him to look. "Right there!"

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and backed away from the scene, eyes widening and the color dropping from his face. "There really _are_ wraiths?"

Sam wanted to smack him. "We've got to do something about them."

One ambulance, then another screamed by.

One of the wraiths floating down the street stopped. It turned and locked eyes with Dean. The creature stood statue still, focused completely on Dean. The air around it darkened until nearly black enough to obliterate the wraith's form. Sam could just barely make out its outline.

Dean straightened, stiffening, his hands fluttered at his sides. He gasped, which was very un-Dean-like. Sam stared at his brother, the wraith forgotten. About to question him, force him to face him and listen, Sam's attention was diverted when the wraith moved. It became nothing more than a streak of grayish white flinging itself at Dean. It had come to finish what it'd started before, Sam was sure. Moving faster than he ever thought he could, Sam was in front of his brother. Before he even knew what he was doing something…_just came out of me like a punch_…erupted out of Sam with enough force he was flung backwards and into Dean.

The wraith was deflected sideways, stopping long enough to take stock of them both. Sam swore it glared at them, or maybe more like through them. Then it skittered away, no doubt after easier prey.

The sidewalk under them cracked and split. Branches stripped from nearby trees and a fire hydrant cracked apart, blowing water out at all sorts of odd angles. Flipping around, Sam looked at Dean who sat there staring at the sight, face ashen, mouth dropped open.

"We need to go, Sam." Dean was on his feet moving, stumbling into Sam, pushing him at the Impala.

"We _need_ to stop the wraiths." Sam jerked away; fists clenched, he turned and stalked down the sidewalk ignoring how the cement cracked under his feet and windows shattered as he stormed past. He did his best to ignore the pressure ramming outward from somewhere deep inside him and how his ribcage felt as if it was going to split it two. "I need to get more information."

Thankfully Dean didn't argue, simply got in the car and drove them back to the motel. Sam glared out the window and turned a few more questions over in his head. He didn't bother opening the door to their room, he simply let it blast off the hinges.

"Oh, that's gonna piss off the motel owners." Dean sort of smirked and propped the door back up. He sidestepped as Sam paced back and forth across the room.

"Why are you so against this hunt?"

Dean turned and faced him, sighing dramatically. "Does it ever occur to you that you're nuts? All you've done, Sam, is act erratically and babble about things no one else sees." Dean scooped the remote off the TV and threw himself onto the nearest bed, stretching out, one arm tucked behind his head. "What part of that should make me believe _anything_ you say?"

"_You_ saw them! Just now near the bus."

Dean smirked, held up one hand and shrugged, "Semantics."

"Why haven't you called me Sammy?"

Clicking through the stations, Dean chuckled. "Aww…first it's _it's SAM_, now it's wah wah wah, it's _NOT Sammy_. Oh, look _Taxi Driver_ is on. Just started. I love this movie. Now shut up so I can watch."

_You're Travis Bickle in a skirt_.

Sam froze. The pressure in his chest and head gathered like some inner hurricane.

_You're Travis Bickle in a skirt_.

"Where's my brother?"

Dean turned to him. As his smile started, his face changed. By the time it was spread over the face, it wasn't Dean's face. The Trickster waggled his fingers at Sam. "Hiya…_Sammy_!"

Sam screamed and charged him. The pressure inside him erupted out.

* * *

Dean was knocked completely off his feet and flung backwards across the bed. The air around him crackled and snapped. It was a heavy weight pressing down against him from all sides. He pushed against the bed with both arms, struggling to sit up, to _breathe_.

He saw it. _Saw_ how the power literally exploded out of Sam in great waves. It was virtually a swirling hurricane of power let loose unchecked. For a few minutes, Dean's connection was severed by the invisible force surrounding him and threatening to crush him. The joy of knowing the intense fear Sam inspired in the Trickster was paled by not knowing if Sam could survive such an outburst. This was more than Sam had ever done before and he'd been pushed to the breaking point. It'd been building, and now ignited Dean wasn't sure it wouldn't consume his brother. Driven by the Trickster to use his power more and more, Sam spiraled down an ever-deepening slope.

Sam, Dean was sure, would never have been able to do a fraction of what he was doing now, let alone lose control in such a way if it weren't for the Trickster's manipulation. The creature had intentionally been feeding Sam and ramping up the power Sam had naturally.

As suddenly as it was severed, the connection was reestablished with enough force to crush the air from Dean's lungs, leaving him panting and gasping on the bed for a few minutes.

Dean _felt_ it. Sam's hate and anger poured out and surrounded him. The raw, uncontrolled energy accompanying those emotions was suffocating. Sam wasn't rationalizing much at this point. He was simply reacting. Every action resulted in a shock of pain rolling through Dean's chest and a hearty electric jolt from his amulet that burned against his skin.

Rolling to one side, Dean forced himself up onto one elbow. Drawing deep, painful breaths into his oxygen-starved lungs, he forced his arm to straighten. Shaking, ignoring the way his head pounded, his senses spun, and his insides churned, he managed to get his feet under him and push away from the bed, standing up on shaky, unsure legs.

Stumbling across the room, Dean pulled his amulet out from under his shirt. The charge coursed through his fist and tingled along every nerve ending in his body. His free arm braced against the wall beside the door, he looked down at his fist. "Great, what do I do now, click my heels together three times and say there's no place like home?"

Then he looked up and stared hard at his adversary of the moment, the door. _That_ was exactly what he had to do. "Come on, Sammy, don't let go, don't you let go of me," he commanded.

Puffing in great breaths, he straightened, squared his shoulders, clenched his fist tighter around his amulet, took a step back and kicked. The door didn't open under his blow, it shattered like cheap glass. The oppressive weight and pain dissipated with the same suddenness as it'd appeared. The Trickster's hold over him was broken. Shouldering his way through, Dean was out and running to the motel, Sam and the Trickster.

* * *

"Where is he?" Sam was across the room, his hands around the Trickster's neck hauling him to his feet in an instant. The pressure was building in his chest again; he saw the Trickster's mouth move, but his voice sounded miles away and underwater to Sam. Crackling and popping swirled through his ears, merciless waves of hammer-hard pain pounded through his skull. He couldn't breathe right, could merely gulp air into his lungs.

The Trickster slapped Sam's hands away effortlessly . Freed, he darted out of reach. "You're some kind of freak. Look at you. A few days without that pain-in-the-ass brother of yours and you can't even see straight, let alone think straight."

It was right, Sam realized. The thought barely had time to take form as it sluiced around his muddled brain. This never happened to him when Dean was around, no matter how angry or frightened he became. Dean somehow offered Sam the ability to control this, whatever this was, as if he was some kind of shield between the power building in Sam and the world. His control somehow depended on Dean. His thoughts were too elusive and fleeting; Sam couldn't process them or make sense of what information was coming to him.

Without that shield, Sam couldn't hold the power back by himself. It was bursting out of him. The harder he tried to stop it, the more forceful it became. He felt it ooze from his pores to creep in thin tendrils around his arms and legs, squeeze tight against his torso.

"I…want…him…back. NOW!"

The Trickster smirked. "I know what you're thinking right now, you're thinking what would big brother Dean do, how would he fix this. If it were him, how would he find you?"

Sam crossed both arms over his chest, and watched the Trickster. It was true, but he wasn't going to admit it. "Actually, I think I might go with what would _Sam_ do."

He let go of the tenuous, threadbare hold he'd had over all the energy building inside of him. He expected to have glass rain down from everywhere when he heard shattering and snapping coming from every corner of the room. Instead, dozens of wooden shards slammed into the wall behind the Trickster.

"All that beautiful, glorious power and you can't even hit a target three feet away."

Before Sam could open his mouth to answer, the Trickster's face changed and Sam stood staring at himself. The sound of something heavy hit the door from outside. It banged open and Dean, fists clenched, angry and determined, burst into the room. His eyes skimmed around the room for a few seconds then he was in motion again.

All the pressure in Sam's head and chest vanished. All the power swirling around him close enough and heavy enough that he thought he should have been able to reach out and touch it was suddenly gone. A feeling of control and calmness replaced all the pain and turmoil of the past few days.

Sam didn't have time to do or say anything. Dean moved in complete hunter mode, fast, silent, deadly. Sam had seen it hundreds of times, felt proud and awestruck and safe all at once watching Dean bear down on his prey. His eyes were hard, flat and deadly, focused completely on Sam. This time it was Sam who was the prey and seeing Dean come at him like that was frightening enough to paralyze him.

Dean used one hand to fist Sam's shirt and drive him back a few steps. His other hand gripped one of the wooden spears he'd grabbed as he came through the door and crossed the room.

"Get away from my brother," Dean snapped at Sam. Before he could protest and tell him he _was_ Dean's brother, Trickster-Sam started running its mouth.

"I can take care of this myself. I don't need you, you're nothing but a roadblock, holding me back from what I can do," Trickster-Sam yelled.

"Interesting thing about going to Hell, I came back with a few things I don't think I was supposed to ever have." Another hard shove against Sam's chest forcing him back yet another step. "Like, here's a fun fact," Dean met Sam's eyes and Sam plainly read the _you can do this_. He moved the wooden spike between them and let go, smiling ever so slightly as it hovered in mid-air. "One of you is Sam. One is some lowlife, scumbag demigod who just can't leave us alone." He turned far enough to offer Trickster-Sam a cocked eyebrow and an upturned corner of his mouth. "See, I can tell the difference."

Trickster-Sam opened his mouth then shut it with a snap when Dean wheeled away from Sam and charged across the room, landing solidly on the Trickster. Sam heard how their bodies created a dull thud against the floor. Leaning back onto his knees and yanking the Trickster with him, Dean hauled back and slammed his fist into the Trickster's face twice. His shout of "_Sam_" was all the prompting Sam needed.

Sam looked down at the piece of wood hanging in the air in front of him. The spear of wood Dean had silently conveyed to Sam was the weapon they needed. Twisting sideways, pointed end aimed at Dean and the Trickster, the wooden spike propelled forward. It skimmed through the air with a whistle, a blur of tan that stretched out as it picked up speed.

Dean rolled away from the Trickster a split second before the piece of wood crashed into the creature, driving hard into its chest. Disbelief then pure panic materialized on the Trickster's face before it evaporated.

"Is it dead?" Sam finally found his voice.

Dean got to one knee then stood. "I doubt it. We've done the same thing before and no luck, but I don't think he's hanging around anymore."

"You could tell the difference?"

"Yeah." Dean grinned like a little kid. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"You never told me."

"I wasn't actually really sure until now."

"Ha! You two are a prize." The Trickster reappeared. "I'm heading out now, too many wraiths around. I don't mess with those dudes." He pointed at Sam, "You're just not the bundle of fun I thought you'd be. Wraiths, huh, who knew?" He shrugged and popped to the other side of the room. "Little boy with big power."

When he disappeared again, Dean snatched one of the wooded spears out of the wall and threw it at the spot the Trickster vacated. "I hate that thing!"

Sam stared at his brother, wide-eyed while the room started swaying back and forth in lazy dips and spins. Dean came at him again, this time saying, "Whoa, whoa, whoa," moving as if he were trying to catch a frightened, stray dog and not as if he wanted to kill something.

Looping one arm around Sam's waist, Dean stopped his slow slide to the ground. "Wraiths, Dean, real wraiths…we hafta…"

"Yeah, we do." Dean hooked one of Sam's arms over his shoulder and steered them outside to the car. By the time they were leaning against it, Dean was bent over and sucking in breaths.

"They should be gone. Stopped Emily, burned her skeleton." Sam heard how his words slurred. He had no energy left, he felt drained and empty. "She was angry and—"

"I know, Sammy. Everything you did, I know."

"How?"

Dean shrugged and fought to liberate the car keys from his jeans pocket. Unlocking the door he shook his head, "I don't know, maybe the Trickster did that on purpose. We can figure it out later." Dean waited until Sam was inside the car before moving to the other side. "But everything you did, I felt." Sam saw how he leaned one hand against the car using it as a brace to stay upright. "Where is Jimmy buried?"

"S-s-same cem-m-metary." Sam didn't understand. His brain just wouldn't work right, as if he'd short-circuited. "I s-stopped Emily. D-d-did wha-what I sh-should…I—"

Dean's hand around his wrist stopped Sam from pulling his hair and rocking against the seat. It seemed as if they'd just left the motel and they were pulling into the cemetery. Sam had blacked out part of the way. "Incantation…burned…" Sam shoved Dean's hand away when he reached for Sam's wrist again. "Cremated." The car door opened and Sam ended up on his hands and knees for a brief second before his face met the ground.


	7. Chapter 7

"Shit!" Dean wasn't fast enough to grab him and keep him from slamming face first into the ground next to the car. "Sam, come on, work with me." His arms felt rubbery and weak as he tried hefting Sam to his feet.

Using the car as a guide and to brace against, Dean managed to shove them to the back end of the car. One hand struggling with the trunk, and the other holding onto Sam, keeping him upright, all at the same time, Dean yanked out a duffel of weapons and a jug of holy water. Next to the duffel was a crossbow. He grabbed that too along with some silver tipped bolts. Those would be more affective against wraiths than bullets, besides he liked the heaviness of it in his hands. It was an elegant weapon.

Sam's rear thumped onto the fender. He held on with a white-knuckle grip and watched Dean with eyes that didn't quite focus and were slow to follow any turn of his head. In the few seconds it took him to gather the supplies, Sam lost his hold on the car and more or less oozed to the ground, knees bent, hands limp at his sides he dropped his head back and looked at Dean.

Dean got Sam to mostly stand and wrestled him and the crossbow and bolts into the Mausoleum. The final word Sam had slurred out took shape in Dean's mind as soon as they were through the door. Dumping Sam as gently and quickly as possible onto the floor, Dean darted back outside and snatched up the holy water and duffel.

Jimmy had been cremated. All this time Dean was working with the idea Sam had been so focused on finding Emily and burning her bones that when the Trickster appeared, taking Dean's place, Sam had forgotten about Jimmy. He didn't blame Sam in the least, he'd nearly forgotten about Jimmy too. It was nearly impossible for either of them to think straight with everything the Trickster had been pushing Sam to do.

Dean saw evidence of the wraiths the entire drive here. They surrounded homes and parks. A few he saw slither right out of the ground. The patch of woods he'd become lost in as a child seemed to be a favorite spot. Behind every tree and shrub it seemed there was a wraith. People, even dogs and cats were being claimed. Anyone or anything crossing paths with the shadowy creatures were slaughtered on the spot and their souls and life sucked out of them. It was as if some barrier holding the things back had been broken down. He'd even seen the two skimming the air behind the Impala. Why they simply followed and didn't attack them, he had no clue.

The odds of them finding something of Jimmy's left behind in this town before the wraiths overran everything were slim. Dean was getting that royally-screwed feeling.

Together the brothers stumbled through the Mausoleum. They'd have to make a stand here. Sam was only half conscious, babbling about burning Emily and that he didn't explode her bones, how he didn't want this power and had no control over it. Dropping the duffel in the middle of the main hall, Dean ran to the door, locking it. Next he scooped Sam off the floor and leaned him against the wall farthest from the door. His little brother's legs immediately bent, and he slid to the floor, gazing up at Dean with a chastised five-year-old expression.

"We gotta get farther away from the door." Dean reached down and tugged on Sam's arm to get up. "Find somewhere with better cover."

Sam was pulling in breaths like every one was his last. "It's not going to matter, Dean."

Tightening his grip on Sam's arm, Dean mumbled, "Humor me." He bent and grabbed the duffel, hanging it off Sam's shoulder. The jug of holy water and crossbow he gripped in his free hand.

Sam huffed irritably, but used the wall as a brace and got his feet under him. Leaning more of his weight on Dean than he supported himself, he let his brother haul him down a hall farther into the building. There were a series of smaller rooms off the main hall. They found Jimmy's urn, for all the good it was going to do them, in one of the rooms toward the end.

Dean took the duffel from Sam and dropped it in the middle of the room. He guided Sam to one wall and deposited him there then looked around. There wasn't anything he could use as a defense or that gave him any great ideas. They'd have to deal with what they'd brought in from the Impala.

Until he tuned in on the stream of words Sam was whispering.

Dean knelt in front of his brother and pulled his hands from his hair. A palm resting against Sam's shoulder stopped the gentle rocking motion he'd taken up again. His other hand gripped Sam's chin and turned his head so their eyes met. Sam's eyes had a glazed, glassy look to them. "Sammy."

For an instant Sam focused on him and stopped muttering. In the next second, his eyes were unfocused and his gaze was wandering around the room in no particular pattern or order.

"Sam." This time Dean tightened his grip on Sam's chin and put more force into his voice.

Sam shuddered and pushed away, shaking his head. One trembling hand pointed behind Dean. Turning Dean looked over his shoulder. Two wraiths were moving through the large room, coming at them. Their path wasn't a straight one, which Dean found odd, but he wasn't going to complain. Instead they crisscrossed the room and circled around each other, gradually floating closer with each pass.

"Sam, listen to me. What did you say about Emily and Jimmy?" He moved Sam and leaned to the side so he blocked Sam's view of the wraiths. A very gentle shake forced Sam to pay attention to him. "Sammy, come on, we don't have much time."

Swallowing slow and thick, Sam blinked; it seemed an effort for him to raise his eyelids. "Jimmy died on Emily's birthday."

"She was hurt and angry."

Sam nodded, but he was watching the ceiling, moving his head as he watched the shadows Dean saw skulking ever closer to them.

"Brought the wraiths here, no birthdays allowed."

"Sammy, you have to let it go. Emily brought them, but you did, too. They came here because of Emily and Jimmy, but they're staying here because of us."

"Noo…" Sam slurred.

"Yes," Dean barked. When Sam cringed away, Dean flinched and softened his voice. "I died on your birthday, Sam. You're angry. You want revenge."

Sam nodded slowly.

"Sam you need to stop. You're the only one who can stop them. You brought—" Dean's words were cut off when he was abruptly and forcefully shoved away and slammed against the opposite wall. Stars in a dazzling amount of colors exploded across his vision. The air in his lungs was expelled in a forceful whoosh. How he managed to get himself together enough to push upright, shaking his head, Dean would never know.

One of the wraiths hovered right in front of Sam.

Staring up at the thing through drab bangs, Sam's eyes were wide and round. His dark hair dripping over his face made him appear pale as death. A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin, and Dean saw how he struggled to quiet the tremors of his limbs. Sam's sheer terror rolled off him, hitting Dean squarely in the chest and making his breath seize in his body.

A gasping shudder released his voice. "No. Leave him alone. You leave him alone!" Dean shouted, and shoved upright. "Sam, let go, let it go. You were hurt and angry I died, and I died on your birthday, but Sammy, please, let it go. Say it, say you're not angry!"

The wraith turned and flung out a hand, and Dean was pulled forward only to be smashed into the wall again. Dean felt ribs and spine pop and snap in response to the abuse. He pulled his head forward and cranked his head side to side a few times. This was getting old.

"I don't want to die. Dean's alive. Go away," Sam croaked, eyes flitting from the wraith to Dean. "Leave…us…alone."

Dean was completely powerless to do anything other than watch helplessly as the wraith hovered over his brother. It reached out one finger. Sam tried moving away, pushing along the wall with his hands but barely got a few inches before the wraith's fingertip touched Sam's head.

Slumping back, Sam gasped and paled even more. "Leave…alone…" Sam's lips moved, barely enough breath came from him to speak the words aloud.

"No," Dean choked out.

The world stilled.

The entire room around them was devoid of sound or movement. Even the air surrounding them seemed to evaporate for a few seconds, leaving them in a gray shadow that blocked out everything else. Dean might have expected bone-chilling cold, but there was nothing. He, Sam, and the wraiths were in some sort of vacuum that let in no sound or light, a barrier between them and the rest of existence.

It was shockingly and eerily familiar.

That was when the wraith spoke. Looking down at Sam, it nodded. "The price of vengeance is high. Retribution…justice…is free, little one." As it turned away from Sam, Dean saw how his eyes rolled back and his body went completely lax as he slumped over. It took a few seconds before he realized Sam's chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. Sam wasn't dead, just unconscious.

The wraith picked up the crossbow and bolts abandoned by Dean. It turned back to Sam. Gathering him up, the wraith pivoted to Dean. It was so huge Dean's six-foot-four brother seemed like a tiny child in its arms. Even against the gray wraith, Sam's pallor was dull and colorless.

It crossed the room…_a__ weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_…crossbow and bolts in one hand, Sam held in its other arm. Stopping in front of Dean, it gazed down at him…_ a weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_…this time the words weren't in his head. The wraith recited them.

It laid Sam gently across Dean's legs. As soon as contact with the wraith was broken, Sam stirred. Looking up with groggy eyes, he shook his head slightly and inched away from the wraith and closer to Dean. His fingers found and curled in the hem of Dean's jeans. He swallowed thickly and tried pushing up on his arms. Sam's elbows gave out when his back was barely away from Dean's legs, and he sagged back down. Raw, wet gasps came with every inhale Sam took, making Dean wince at how painful he sounded. Dean's legs vibrated in time with Sam's shivering.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.

The wraith laid the bolts on Sam's chest.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.

It took the crossbow and placed it in Dean's hands. Fingers gripping the weapon Dean could do nothing but stare up at the creature and wonder why neither he nor Sam were dead. Not that Dean wasn't going to complain. The wraith nodded once, and Dean felt a strange sensation of peace wash through him. He could only feel grateful they were alive. The idea surrounding Sam's—_their—_ power and how to use it planted by the wraiths actions took tenuous hold in Dean's mind. He'd work it out later.

Then both wraiths were gone.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.

As light streamed back into the room, Dean squinted and put one hand over his eyes until they adjusted. He reached out with his other hand and grasped Sam's shoulder, keeping his brother pinned solidly to his legs until Dean's senses stopped reeling.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean didn't remember much of them getting back to the car, but that wasn't so unusual. He'd lost count of the number of times the two of them had staggered away after a hunt, one brother leaning on the other. They'd done it so many times they had it worked out to some sort of an art form he decided. They could both definitely do it half conscious, which more times than not is how it happened. The Impala was their safe haven, the home that was _Dean-and-Sam_. He shoved Sam through the driver's side door and then followed; elbowing his brother over just far enough to retrieve car keys from his pocket, get them into the ignition and the car started and in gear.

Right now that was more than enough to think about. Dean put the rest on a backburner until they were both safely away.

Sam was out like a light, passed out beside Dean before they'd gotten out of the cemetery. That didn't surprise him one bit. The poor kid had been completely drained by the Trickster and his stupid antics. Sam wasn't the only one drained, and by the time they'd reached their motel, Dean was having a hard time keeping his own eyelids from drooping.

Leaving Sam snoring softly in the car, Dean made fast work of cleaning out their belongings from the motel and vacating the room before the broken door was discovered. As it was, he was somewhat amazed no one had seen it yet, but it'd been left propped up in such a way it looked closed, even though it was off its hinges. The _Do Not Disturb_ sign still hung from the doorknob.

Dean got a big cup of strong coffee at a nearby gas station and hit the highway, pulling off two exits later and checking into another motel on the other side of Flickerston. Nudging Sam awake they trudged into the motel. Dean hadn't been quite that happy to see a clean bed in a long while. He yanked down the sheets and blankets on one bed and used two fingers to shove Sam in that direction. His brother didn't need much urging, he sprawled out on the bed, mumbled something incoherent that Dean was still able to translate into a thank you, kicked off his boots, rolled over and promptly went back to sleep.

Dropping their duffels, Dean salted and warded their room before stretching out on his bed. He didn't waste time in joining Sam in some much needed rest. The sound of Sam's breathing a few feet away lulled him to sleep.

When Dean woke the sun was casting low shadows across their room; the bright light of daytime darkening to the orangish hues of late afternoon. Sam had barely moved and didn't so much as twinge when Dean wandered across the room, grabbed clean clothes and proceeded to the shower. A quick glance at his watch after he was dried and dressed, Dean realized he had time to finish collecting the car parts if he hurried.

A quick note left for Sam, a fast, but detailed check of the wards and salt lines, with an extra line of salt carefully placed around Sam's bed, and Dean was off. His errands took him just over an hour and when he returned he was pleased to see Sam hadn't budged. The smell wafting out of the bucket of chicken he'd picked up while making his rounds did get Sam's nose twitching. Finally he rolled to his side, sat up rubbing one hand over his unruly hair, and stared at Dean with blurry eyes.

"Hungry, Sammy?" Dean tipped his head at the food. He'd bought three two-liter bottles of pop to go with the chicken and poured some for them both.

Sam staggered to the table, dropped down and proceeded to eat every piece of chicken, other than the one Dean had in his hand. Shrugging, Dean picked up his phone and ordered an extra-large pizza with the works.

"I should have known," Sam confessed quietly somewhere around the same time he polished off half the chicken. "There were all sorts of signs that it wasn't you."

"Yeah, well it happens." Dean took a deep breath, collected his thoughts and went on, "When Meg hijacked you, I had no idea what had happened, of course. I called everyone I knew, I looked everywhere I could think of. By the time you called, it'd been just enough time that I was desperate and scared and just so damn happy and relieved to hear your voice on the phone that I didn't care about anything else. You sounded so freaked out the only thing I thought of was getting to you and fixing whatever had happened, to know that you were safe. You sat there and told me you didn't remember a whole week, and I let it go right on by me. You practically told me you were possessed and, Sam, I was so twisted around I didn't pay attention. I wanted to believe you were you and everything was alright, so I ignored what was in front of me. The Trickster did the same thing to you. Gave you enough time to get frantic and turned around."

He stopped talking when a rap on their door announced the arrival of the extra-large pizza Dean had ordered when he saw he wasn't getting much of the chicken.

Sam's eyes skimmed the table, landing on the pizza. Dean managed get two pieces of the pizza between Sam devouring the rest. He was a bit worried for a few minutes that Sam would take off his hand and eat it too when he went for that second piece of pizza.

"I kept thinking you weren't acting like _you_. I didn't do anything about it, just went along for the ride." The corners of Sam's mouth twitched up then his mouth dropped to a tight line, "You..._it_…wouldn't let me eat. How big of a clue should that have been? I guess all I cared about was that you'd come back, and I kept hoping you'd start acting more like yourself."

"I lived it too, Sam. Felt and sometimes even saw what was happening to you. He had you so twisted around no one would have had a chance against that. I'd have done the same thing I think. That's what these things do. They play on our fears and wants. It's nearly impossible to see through it all the time."

That seemed to quell Sam's unease, at least for now. Dean was sure there'd be more fallout, but they could deal with it as it came. By the time Sam was sacked out snoring again, Dean was left with his one glass of pop and the slightly stale cake still in the box that somehow had managed to survive.

Dean decided his new second job was watching Sam marathon nap.

It gave him plenty of time to think some things over.

* * *

Sam woke up slowly. He had the hit-by-a-truck feeling. Actually, it felt more like he'd been hit by a truck and then said truck had backed up a half dozen times just in case any part of him had been missed the first four times.

He was lying on his side. Dean sat on a chair in the space between the two beds. His socked feet rested on Sam's bed, crossed at the ankles with his toes brushing Sam's leg. The TV was on, and whatever he was watching made him smile and chuckle. Sam stayed still, watching until Dean turned to him.

"Hey, you decided to come back." Dean smiled softly, set the remote on the other bed and swung his feet to the floor.

"Are you sitting there because the view to the TV is better?" Sam smiled back. It was a game they played, watch over each other but don't admit to it.

"Totally."

"I didn't blow up the world?"

"Naaa…but you sure have TV's everywhere scared shitless."

Sam laughed but it came out breathless and uneven.

Dean shifted in his chair. Sam noticed the small notebook his brother held and how his knuckles were white he gripped it so hard. The thumb of one hand brushed over the worn edges of the pages. Finally Dean held it up in one hand, laughing a short, nervous laugh. He waggled the notebook back and forth a few times. "I've been writing everything in here. When I wake up, before I forget what little details I can hang onto, I put them in here. It's not much, and I'm not sure it makes any sense…" Dean's voice trailed off. He looked at Sam then away almost at once, eyes focusing on the floor between their beds.

He silently moved his arm and let the book hang between them. Sam looked at Dean for a second before reaching out and closing the space, taking the barrier between them the notebook represented into his own hands.

Clearing his throat, Dean's voice still cracked when he spoke, "It's…um…everything I remember from…ya know…being in Hell."

Nodding, Sam pushed up on the bed and leaned back against the wall. Carefully he scanned the pages, turning them slowly, all the while trying to ignore how Dean fidgeted in the chair like some small child caught talking out of turn at school. "It's not much to go on," he said softly, looking up at Dean and this time able to lock eyes with his brother and hold onto his gaze.

"No. It sure isn't," Dean agreed. He sighed heavily, "But it's what I have and what I can tell you. It's all I remember."

"It'll take some time. We should go through this bit by bit, see what we can piece together."

"Yeah. That's what I thought, too." Dean smiled suddenly, the kind that made his eyes crinkle and Sam breathe easier.

"Dean, what the Trickster said about me not needing you and that you held me back. You know that's not true. That'll never be true."

"Yes, it is, Sam."

"Dean—" He stopped when Dean held up one hand.

"Yes, it is, and I'm damn proud of it. I had some time to think, and I figured out a few things. Whatever it is you have, _you_ don't have it. We have it. It's a weapon, and it needs a trigger, a control. If I don't provide some kind of balance, you go off the deep end and you go down fast. Yeah, I hold you back if you want to look at it like that. Just you or just me, that's no good, it's the _we_, the us together, that makes that power work for us. Not against us and not uncontrolled."

"When you came in right before the Trickster disappeared, it felt like all the pressure that built up inside me went away. It was all gone, and I couldn't tap into anything or use it anymore."

"It's there. We just have to learn to use it. We, Sam. Together."

"I don't want this power."

"I don't think we have much choice," Dean said. "What the Trickster did to you had that power out of control. I think he managed to boost it or tap into it himself somehow. I haven't really worked that part out. I do know it was only partially because of him I felt what you were going through, the rest was all you and me. Being able to actually see some of what you did, now that, I think, was the Trickster taking our connection to one another and using it to give me the images."

Sam leaned forward and carefully planted his feet on the floor. "Can we go?"

"Dude, please. Car is packed, parts have been picked up, and I've been sitting here waiting for you to get done with your beauty nap for about fifteen hours now."

"Shower first?"

"Hell yeah, you're not getting in my car smelling like you do." Dean reached out, swiped one hand over Sam's head then ducked away from Sam's swinging fist.

An hour later Sam was settled comfortably in the passenger seat of the Impala watching the world go by. When Dean pulled off the highway, onto a side road and drove to a secluded spot out of sight of the main road, Sam straightened. "Why are we stopping here?"

Glancing at him, Dean cut the engine and slid from the car. He jerked his head in a _c'mon_ motion and headed to the back of the car, vanishing from sight when the trunk popped open.

Sam climbed out, stretched, and watched as Dean walked away a few yards and set an empty can on a fallen log. Then he took two tool chests from the trunk and set them side by side near Sam. Motioning Sam onto one, he settled onto the other. They were close enough their shoulders touched. "We're going to learn to use this power, Sam." He put one arm around Sam's shoulders. "Well, we're going to try and start anyway."

Glancing over at him, Sam drew in a deep breath. "How? Either it just comes out, or it's not around when I need it. Or it's on some kind of overload."

"I've got an idea. Every weapon we've ever learned to use, we learned together, starting way back when we were kids. This is no different. We start at the beginning, start small and work our way up from there. Just like with every other thing we've learned. Then we practice till we get it right. Look at the can." Dean's elbow brushed at Sam's arm, his chin tipped at the can. "Now close your eyes and picture the can."

Sam did so, nodding as the can's image formed inside his mind.

Dean lowered his voice and spoke with calm, even words. "Now, imagine yourself standing in front of the can, just a few yards away, nothing hard."

"Okay." Sam whispered, getting the idea where Dean was going with this.

"Pick some weapon to hold, a favorite pistol or knife, whatever you like the most."

"My handgun," Sam said at once. "The one you picked out for me when I turned eighteen."

When Dean shifted slightly beside him, Sam turned his head toward the movement, cracked his eyes open and slide his gaze to his brother's face. He caught the quick, delighted smile before it morphed to a fake sternness. "Sammy, eyes shut and concentrate."

Snickering, Sam closed his eyes. "Okay, got the can and I can see myself standing a few feet from it, holding my gun."

"Now," Dean drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, softly, "take aim at the can. Get it in your sights."

"Okay."

Dean's hand came to rest on Sam's shoulder, a warm, solid reassuring presence. "Got that image?"

"Yes." Sam exhaled.

"Imagine the power of the bullets in the gun is now the power in your head."

Sam jerked out a nod, the fingers of both hands gripped at his thighs.

"Relax."

Sam let his fingers go slack against his leg. He twisted his head side to side a bit and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Dean's hand never moved.

"Now, just like I taught you when you were younger, gently, very gently squeeze the trigger. Let the bullet…the power…out. Hit the can with it."

Sam sucked in a surprised breath and jumped when he heard the distinct pinging sound from the can hitting the ground. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked over at Dean. His brother was grinning madly. Striding to the can, Dean snatched it off the ground and held it up.

"We did it." Sam didn't even try hiding the surprise in his voice.

"Yeah. We did."

Dean placed the can back on the stump and walked back, sitting beside Sam once again.

"Try again?" Sam asked.

"You betcha, Sammy."


	9. Chapter 9

**Six Months Later**

"Sam, if you don't get your ass in here _right now_, you're gonna be riding _on_ the car not in it." The upper half of Dean's body hung out the driver's side window.

"One more spot to wipe down." Sam rubbed the cloth in a small circle, blew a hot breath against it, and repeated the action with the cloth.

"Sam!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on." He darted around to the passenger side and hopped inside the car. "You ever going to let me drive?"

"No."

"Why not? This was my idea."

"No."

"But—"

"No. You can't drive a stick." Dean grinned and started the engine. "Ahh…listen to that purr." He patted the dash. "She's nearly seventy-five years old."

"I'm going to be ninety before we go anywhere in her…it."

"Ha! You said _her_."

Sam grinned. "Okay. Her. Are we going to test drive this thing or not?" He twisted to look at Dean. "And why is it you can help me learn to use some freaky demon power, but you won't teach me to drive a stick shift?"

"Doesn't matter, Sammy, you're not driving this car. It needs an experienced person at the helm."

"Ha! You said _it_!"

"I didn't mean—" Dean grumbled and pulled the 1937 Chevy Master onto the dirt road leading from Singer's Auto and headed to the main road. "Shut your trap and open the gate."

Sam grinned when the gate to the junk yard swung open just before the car barreled into it. They drove through and onto the road. There was hardly any other traffic; it was as if they had this bit of the world to themselves. Dean pressed against the gas, the engine rumbled and Sam felt how the car shifted and opened up as Dean increased their speed.

Offering him a completely fake annoyed look, Dean snickered, "Cutting it a bit close, weren't ya?"

"Element of surprise."

Dean glanced at him then back to the road. "More like showing off."

"As if you wouldn't," Sam muttered and ducked away from the punch aimed at his shoulder.

Shrugging, Sam resettled in the deep, leather seat, one arm resting on the opened window. The early evening air was warm, but not uncomfortably so. The breeze from the moving car ruffled his bangs and wafted over his face.

Dean had died. Dean had come back. Sam still didn't know what it was he'd done, or how he'd brought Dean out of Hell and back to the living but he had his brother and he was safe. The wraiths hadn't taken Dean's soul and they easily could have, leading Sam to believe Dean's soul was safe. That was all that really mattered.

Now there was a way to fight these demons with a clearer understanding of how they both needed each other to use this power, of what to do with it. Sam's head was definitely screwed on better these days. Dean had finally stopped looking at him as if he'd melt or break and shatter into a million small pieces. The days of Dean worrying over Sam's sanity were behind them and Sam hoped to keep it that way. Maybe he'd never be able to do the things the Trickster had manipulated him to do, but at least with his brother, Sam's control and his mind were far more stable.

"It's cool, huh?" Dean tapped Sam's leg. "Being in this car."

"It is," Sam agreed. He stretched his arms over the seat and let his fingertips brush Dean's shoulder.

"You really want to learn to drive her?"

"Yes." Sam bolted up straight. He flushed and looked away, embarrassed by how ridiculously excited he was at the prospect of driving an old—ancient—car. "Isn't showing your kid brother the ropes what you're supposed to do?"

Dean smiled softly and pulled to the side of the road. "Burn out the clutch, and you put a new one in." He parked the car, got out, and Sam slid to the driver's seat. Dean settled in the passenger seat. "Okay…that's the clutch, that's the brake and there's the gas." Dean pointed to each as he spoke. "This thing here," Dean tapped the gear shift, "is the gear shift."

"Dean, even I know that."

"You want to do this or not?"

Sam shut his mouth then made a zipping up and throwing away the key motion. Dean nodded, turning serious. When it came to cars and hunting, the man was all business.

"Push in the clutch gently. Now start her up and move the stick here, to first gear. Then ease your foot slowly off the clutch and press down on the gas at the same time."

Sam did as his brother instructed. The Chevy Master shuddered and jumped forward.

"Slow it down, Sammy. Just ease up on the clutch and down on the gas."

One thing Sam had always known, even as a small child, was that Dean was an excellent teacher. Sam was always his most rapt student. It was a quality Sam now cherished deeply. He felt blessed to have been able to experience that side of Dean's personality first hand again and again. After a few false starts, he was easing the car onto the road and up to speed.

Dean's smile was wide and brilliant, "There you go, you've got it." He patted Sam's knee a few times, leaned back against the seat looking quite pleased and content with himself.

Sam's grip on the steering wheel eased up as he got more comfortable with the gears and clutch and the difference between this and a car with an automatic transmission. They had a nice night, a full tank of gas, and nowhere in particular to drive. Tomorrow they'd be hunters again, and this car would be tucked in a heated garage under a tarp behind Bobby's house waiting for another warm summer night when they had time to enjoy the ride.

Tonight they had nothing but open road. Tomorrow they'd be off to save the world…again.

The End


End file.
